


Charge of the Light Brigade

by rex_who



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1915, Anderson doesn't really come up, Conscription, Eventual Smut, First World War, He's just the incompetent soldier, Jim in the army, Letters Home, M/M, Mary and Molly are nurses, Mycroft is an officer, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock in the cavalry, actually really heavy, not really light, wwi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rex_who/pseuds/rex_who
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1915. The Great War has been raging in France for a year now, and everyday more boys are joining up to fight in it, dreaming of medals and glory.<br/>These boys are being recruited under the promise of having them home by Christmas, but everyone knows that they’re never coming back. Mothers wail at the sight of their sons dressed head to toe in military khaki, knowing that they’ll most likely die in those clothes.<br/>Recruitment slows down, but the war is still raging. The Germans are getting closer to victory with every soldier they gun down, and the British are losing ten men for every one man the Germans lose. Times are desperate, and soon the unthinkable happens: conscription.<br/>Drafted into the cavalry, Sherlock Holmes has accepted his fate. He’s not afraid to die, even when everyone around him is. All he can do is make the few weeks he has left on this Earth the best they can be.<br/>That's before he meets Moriarty, an Irish foot soldier who has a different view on life. Suddenly, Sherlock is doing all he can to keep himself and this seemingly suicidal man alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm well aware that 'Charge of the Light Brigade' was written about the Crimean war, but it still works for the first world war.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It’s rather dull over here. My office is full of idiots who whine about this that and the other, and who have no sense of the greater good. Why, I’d go without a cup of tea for a month if it meant this war could end!_

_I do believe that should you wish it, there is a seat over here with your name on it. All you have to do is say the word and you’ll be put into high command quicker than you can say ‘Bob’s your Uncle!’, but you have to be quick. I should think that the opportunity should be gone in about two weeks. This post can’t stay open forever. It’s a lot better up here than it is down in those trenches, Sherlock._

Sherlock read the letter over again. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that this letter would have been checked for any information that might lower morale. Fortunately, Mycroft wasn’t stupid either. Sherlock knew there had to be a reason he was going on about being in high command, but what?

Sherlock put the letter down on the table. “Any news, boy? What’s your big brother telling you?”

“Nothing new, Father. You know that he can’t tell us anything anyway; the mail is being censored.” Sherlock’s father was military veteran, and it was a common occurrence in the village to hear him talking about his days over in India, back when he was a young man and Queen Victoria was on the throne.  He certainly had a few choice words to say about the ‘Great War’ as it was being called. 

“Ludicrous,” he’d mutter loudly whenever he saw boys Sherlock’s age, sometimes younger, signing up eagerly while their friends cheered in the background. “We need experienced soldiers, not these silly boys if we’re to win the war!”

“I do love hearing from Mycroft,” said Sherlock’s mother. “I get so worried…”

“Nonsense!” scoffed Sherlock’s father. “The boy’s done well for himself! He’s sat up in an office somewhere, where nothing can get to him. If only our Sherlock would do the same!”

Sherlock sighed internally. It was the same thing every day. Father would pester him to join up, making snide comments and little digs. Mother would finally have enough, and insist that Father stopped at once, Sherlock was only a child. Father would start arguing, saying people might talk if Sherlock wasn’t shipped off soon, and that’s when Sherlock would slip silently to his room, reading a book, pretending that he couldn’t hear his mother’s tears or his father’s shouting, knowing that he’d only have to stay one more year before he went to university. There were lots of men in the big cities that hadn’t joined up, he was told.

Sherlock stood up from the table. “Please excuse me, Mother, Father. I must go and tend to Redmane.” He left the dining room without listening to whatever his father was saying, and headed out to the stables.

Redmane was a huge stallion with a brown coat that looked red when the sun hit it, hence the name Redmane. He was Sherlock’s favourite companion since his brother left for France. _Stupid Mycroft,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _Father’s so proud of Mycroft sending thousands of men to their death, but he says nothing of me being selected to attend Cambridge University, where the finest minds in the country study._

Sherlock mulled over the contents of his brother’s letter. Obviously, the part about whiny officers was a reference to the fact that supplies were getting low. But the part about a position in high command…

Mycroft had made it clear from the beginning that he wanted Sherlock to stay at home, up until two months ago where he’d written telling him of an opening in high command that was his if he wanted it. Sherlock had written back immediately telling his brother that he wasn’t interested. A few weeks later Mycroft had written back, still talking about the opening. Now there was a deadline?

Sherlock didn’t care about missing out on a job. He simply wondered why Mycroft was suddenly so fixated on it.

After a happy two hours spent grooming Redmane, he headed back towards the house for a bath and a change of clothes before he headed into town. “Hello, Mother. I shall be upstairs, taking a bath should you need me.” Sherlock’s mother simply nodded, eyes transfixed on the newspaper in front of her. _Probably reading for Mycroft’s name,_ Sherlock assumed.

He ran the bath and put his dirty clothes in the basket for mother to wash later. He slipped into the bath, not taking any longer than he had to sitting in the rapidly cooling water. He hoped that one day there would be a device that allowed water to stay at one temperature for an indefinite time; that way he could sit in the bath for hours to ponder.

He dried himself off and changed into something presentable (i.e. not covered in ink stains) to wear into town. “Mother, I’m heading out into the town. Would you like some more eggs while I’m gone?”

Sherlock’s mother put down the newspaper. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself, dear. I’ll go. You stay here and do some studying. Make mother proud.”

“It’s no trouble, mother. I was heading out anyway; I need some supplies for an experiment I’m working on.”

“Sherlock Holmes I forbid you to go into town today!” shouted his mother. Sherlock blinked slowly, unsure of what just happened. His mother’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, darling, but I just would rather you stayed here for today. I’ll not be gone long.”

Sherlock watched as his mother hurried from the room, taking the newspaper with her.  Soon afterwards, the front door slammed closed, and Sherlock was left wondering just what had caused his mother to act so oddly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Private James Moriarty doesn't care that there's a war on, he just wants to get some sleep. Meanwhile, Sherlock finds out some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so in this chapter there's some lowkey Irene/Sherlock going on, but I promise you it's nothing serious. This is still a Sheriarty fic :)

Private James Moriarty woke with a start. “Don’t worry, Jim,” said Anderson cheerfully. “That one was miles off.”

“If you insist on using my first name, at least make it James. Only my friends call me Jim,” growled Jim. “You ain’t got none of those, have you though?” Anderson laughed.

Jim ignored him, and pulled his hat back over his eyes. Might as well try and get some sleep. Tomorrow was a big day, or so he was told. Tomorrow, progress would be made. Tomorrow, he was going over the top.

The room shook as another German shell landed close by. _How am I supposed to get any sleep with this racket going on?!_ He thought angrily to himself.

 _You’ll have plenty of time for sleep when you’re dead,_ piped up the morbid voice in the back of his mind.

Of all the ways Jim pictured himself dying, lying bleeding in some gas filled pit surrounded by a hundred other dying men wasn’t one of them. He’d always pictured something a little bit more glamourous for himself, but then again, this was a war. There was no time for glamour in war. When you died, your friends fought the rats for your decaying body and after saying a quick prayer they shoved you into some hole without so much as a coffin.

Of course, there was always the option of simply shooting oneself in the foot, but Jim knew that never worked. Most folks who tried that died by firing squad. As if the Germans weren’t killing them off quick enough, high command decided to join in too.

There was that one fellow who’d put two pencils up his nose and a pair of underpants on his head and claimed he’d gone mad, but the officers had simply yanked the pencils out and given him a slap across the face for good measure. Jim almost pitied him. To be that desperate…

Jim glanced over at Anderson from under his hat. The poor fool believed everything high command said. He would sit for hours, talking about victory, and how they’d all be back in time for Christmas because those stupid Germans are too busy stuffing themselves with sauerkraut and sausages to actually fight. The man was walking propaganda.

Anderson was writing a letter. “Hey, Jim?”

“James.”

“Why don’t you ever write a letter to your folks back home? Ain’t you got a gal, pining for you?” Jim was not in the mood for this. “No.”

“Unlucky for you. The only way I get through this is by knowing that my Sally’s waiting for me back home. You want to see a picture?”

“Of your two bit whore? No thank you.”

“Hey now, less of that! I’m only trying to be friendly is all. What about your old folks? Your Ma and Pa?”

“It’s complicated.” Anderson’s face lit up. “You can tell me, I won’t tell no one.”

“Who are you, the fucking therapist? Now get gone before I throw you over the top myself!” Anderson held up his hands. “Just trying to help.

Jim sighed. “No one can help. No one even tried.” Anderson looked concerned. “What happened?”

“I grew up. Now hit the road, Jack.”

*****

Sherlock couldn’t believe it. “Conscription!” His father nodded. “Not to go is illegal. Don’t worry, son. You’ll be put in the cavalry on account of that horse of yours, and we all know what useless bastards they are.”

Sherlock looked at his mother who had burst into tears when his father had said the C word. Conscription. Sherlock couldn’t get his head around it.

“Maybe Mycroft will be able to pull some strings,” tried his mother. “Mother, that’s ridiculous. Besides, if Father and I were to stay in the village, people would talk. We’d be ruined.”

“Isn’t Mrs Peter’s boy staying home?” asked his mother. “Something about being a conscientious objector?”

“Bloody coward, that’s more likely,” snorted Sherlock’s father. “Our Sherlock will not be known as a bloody coward.” Sherlock’s mother sobbed even harder. “What am I going to do? All my boys will be gone! I’ll be all alone, and goodness knows if you’re ever coming back! Why didn’t you take the office job when Mycroft offered, Sherlock? At least then I would have known you’d be safe…”

After that, there was no consoling her. Sherlock tried everything he could, but in the end his father dismissed him. “Go and see that girl of yours. Go and see Irene. She’s probably distraught.”

Sherlock jumped on his bike and pedalled over to the house a little further down the lane where Irene and her parents lived. Her brother had long since joined up, and Irene had told Sherlock that he hardly wrote, driving Mr and Mrs Adler up the wall with nerves.

He knocked on the door, and was greeted by a red eyed Irene. “Oh, Sherlock!” she cried, throwing her arms around him before he had the chance to say anything. “Let’s talk inside,” Sherlock suggested. He led her into the living room and they sat down on one of the sofas.

“I wish we were allowed to talk upstairs, but you know how father is,” sniffed Irene. Irene’s father was a vicar, and he had very strict rules where his daughter was concerned. Irene had a strict curfew, and whenever she went out she always had a female chaperone, usually her mother or her aunt. When Sherlock came to visit, the two had to sit downstairs where they could be seen and heard at all times.

After Irene had calmed down a little, Sherlock started speaking. “You know, I shall probably be back by Christmas,” he lied. “Father thinks I shall be in the cavalry, and he says the cavalry do half the work of a foot soldier. I doubt I shall really be in any danger at all. Anyway, it’s what’s right.” Sherlock wished he knew how to sound less like his father. “Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori.”

“There is nothing sweet or dignified about two uniformed men knocking on my door one day to tell me you were shot down! Oh, please, Sherlock, just don’t go!”

“Now, Irene, Sherlock must go.” Irene’s father sat down in the armchair opposite them. “The Lord will keep him safe, provided we pray for his safety. I must say, Sherlock has the right idea, staying calm. I heard that some men get quite upset. They try anything and everything to avoid conscription.”

“I believe that to be pointless, sir,” said Sherlock. “One way or another, we are all going to die. I don’t want my death to be pointless.”

Irene broke down into tears. “You said it. You truly believe you’re going to die.” She sobbed into Sherlock’s shoulder. “What am I going to do?”

Her father gave her a stern look. “Irene, compose yourself. Go upstairs until you can behave like a lady.” Irene left without another word.

Sherlock looked around uncomfortably. “Really, I didn’t mind…”

“Nor did I, but Irene has to learn. No man wants a wailing child as a wife.” They sat in silence for a few moments. “Do you truly believe you are going to die, Sherlock?” asked Mr Adler gently. Sherlock nodded. “My brother offered me a position in high command two weeks ago. I didn’t take it. I never could have dreamed it would come to this. Now, the position has been filled, and I’m doomed to die on the battlefield.”

“It’s a crying shame. You’re such a clever young man, Sherlock. My Irene plans to marry you one day.”

This wasn’t news. Sherlock did notice Irene’s attempts at flirting; the subtle hand brushing, the note writing, the way she played with her hair whenever he was around…

“If you come back from war, I swear with God himself as my witness that I will marry the two of you myself,” promised Mr Adler, misinterpreting Sherlock’s blush. “Until then, just promise me you’ll write to her. Just every so often to let her know you’re still alive.”

“Yes sir. I will.” Irene came back into the living room with her mother in tow. “I just don’t think it’s fair,” she was saying. “First my brother and now Sherlock…” Her mother shushed her as they came in.

Sherlock stood awkwardly. “I think I ought to head home,” he said. “Mother will be so worried.” He gave Irene a stiff hug. “You’ll come to see me off, won’t you?” She nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's part in the war effort begins, and Jim wakes up in hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long teary goodbyes? They're not really my thing, in real life or in writing. Short and sweet, that's me.

Sherlock’s father was right. He was drafted into the cavalry with Redmane. On the morning he was due to be shipped out, he dressed himself in military khaki and looked himself over. “You look classically handsome,” his mother told him with a sad smile as he stood in the kitchen. His father simply grunted his approval. He hadn’t passed the medical exam due to a stab wound through his right shoulder, but he still insisted on donning his old uniform and going to see his son off.

There was a knock on the door, and Sherlock opened it to find Irene, dressed head to toe in black with her aunt trailing behind. At the sight of Sherlock in military uniform, she broke down into fresh tears.

Sherlock patted her awkwardly on the arm. “Ride down with me?” he asked. “Oh, Sherlock, you know I’m terrified of horses,” she sniffed. “And besides, I’m not really dressed for it…”

“You can ride side saddle. Come on.” Sherlock took her hand and led her round to the stables, where Redmane was waiting, freshly groomed. “Up you go.” Sherlock boosted Irene before getting on the horse himself.

They rode through town, where people lined the streets watching as man after man dressed in khaki paraded through, ready to go to war. Some looked terrified, knowing that their death was almost certain. Others blathered away about what an honour it was to serve King and country. _If it’s such an honour, why didn’t you sign up before?_

Sherlock himself tried to keep an air of quiet dignity about him. There was no point crying and screaming; that would only upset Mother and Irene, and make Father ashamed of him. No, if Sherlock Holmes was going to die, he was going to die with dignity.

“Holmes, Sherlock,” he told an officer with a clipboard. “She’s going to have to get down, unless she wants to be a nurse.”

Irene looked hopeful before her aunt stepped in. “Of course she’s not going to be a nurse, she’s had no training. Come now, Irene. You have to get down.” Sherlock slipped off first before helping Irene. “I suppose this is it,” he said. “I shall write to you, and you too, Mother and Father.”

“Sherlock, I got you this. To keep with you.” Irene handed him a photograph. It was a photo of the two of them, stood in the brook near the edge of the village. It was a warm, sunny day, Sherlock remembered. They were both laughing at something that Irene’s mother had said just to get them both to smile for the photograph. “It’s lovely,” said Sherlock. “It shall stay in my pocket, close to my heart.”

Irene threw her arms around him. “I shall miss you so much!” She put her lips on Sherlock’s, only breaking apart when her aunt gave a non-too discrete cough. “Goodbye,” she whispered.

Sherlock’s parents stepped forwards. “Son, you might want to clean your face,” his father told him. “You’ve got a little…”

Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and saw red streaks of the lipstick Irene had been wearing. His mother dabbed at him with her handkerchief. “There now,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Can’t have you going to war wearing make up!”

The officer stepped in. “Excuse me, but I’m afraid we have to get moving.”

Sherlock mounted Redmane. “Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Irene. I shall be back before you know it!”

Sherlock followed the officer to a group of men all on horseback. “Cavalry unit, fall in!” They arranged themselves into four neat rows of five. Sherlock found himself in the centre of the front row, alongside a blonde-ish man and a silver haired man. Neither looked particularly frightened, and Sherlock thanked the Lord. He couldn’t handle going all the way to France with two sobbing babies next to him. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, introducing himself. “Greg Lestrade,” said the silver haired man. “John Watson,” said the blonde. Sherlock’s memory stirred at the name. “Aren’t you…”

“A doctor? Yes. I’ve been posted to this particular cavalry unit, so you’ll always have a doctor around.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Lestrade. Sherlock simply shrugged. “Aren’t you a little young for this?” asked Lestrade. “I mean, no offense son, but you look about sixteen.”

“I’m seventeen, eighteen in three weeks. They decided it wasn’t worth waiting for three weeks, so they’re shipping me out now.” Lestrade shook his head. “They’ve no right,” he muttered. “Sending a young man to the trenches.”

“I’ll be alright,” said Sherlock quickly. “My father’s a military man, he taught me everything there is to know. And my brother, Mycroft, he’s in the army too. He’s already in France, up in high command.”

Before Lestrade could say just what he thought of high command, there was a shout. “Move out!” Sherlock gently nudged Redmane into motion, and just like that, he was on his way.

*****

Jim woke up to the sight of a concerned face leaning over him. “You’re awake!” she said. “How observant.” He groaned. “Where the hell am I and how did I get here?”

“You’re in hospital,” the nurse told him. “You got shot in the leg. High command wanted to have you tried by courts martial; they said you’d probably shot yourself, but your company leader told them you were shot by a machine gun.”

Jim glanced down. Sure enough, wrapped round his leg was a blood soaked bandage. He almost wished he hadn’t looked. Now he’d seen it, he could feel the pain. “Is it going to have to be amputated?” he asked. The nurse shook her head. “Thank the Lord for small mercies.”

“Thank the Lord indeed,” muttered Jim under his breath. If his leg had come off he might have been able to go home. Either that or an infection might have killed him. _If only._

“How did it go?” Jim asked the nurse. A seemingly innocent question, but they both knew what he was really asking. “Not well,” the nurse admitted softly. “We couldn’t save so many of them.” Jim gritted him teeth. It was all just so pointless, and the idiots in high command just never learnt. Soon, there would be no one left to defend them but themselves.

“They say that they’ve started conscription back home,” the nurse told him. “The first lot is due to arrive tomorrow.”

“Poor bastards. Don’t know what they’re getting into.” Jim shook his head. “So, how long am I in here for?”

“You’re to be released tomorrow, but kept in the back trenches and off the front line for at least a month. You have your company leader to thank for that too. You were getting a stiff drink and then sent straight back into the line of fire.”

Speaking of the devil, Anderson himself barged through the door, along with some stout man who looked to be only a little older than Jim. “Ah, there he is the old boy! Goodness, he was so brave! Saved my life he did, and I’ll be damned if you let one piece of dirt smear his name.”

“Alright, Anderson, that’s enough.” The stout man sat on the end of Jim’s bed. “Evening, soldier.”

“Private James Moriarty, sir.” The stout man nodded. “That’s right, you must be a private. You look no older than my little brother. How is it that someone as young as you managed to end up here?” He stared directly into Jim’s eyes. Jim refused to break eye contact. “It’s a complicated story, sir.”

“I can imagine. How is it that you managed to save the life of your company leader?” Jim shifted. “Truth be told, sir, I don’t remember…”

“How can you not remember? There I was, stuck with a foot in the mud, right when you jumped right in front of me and caught a bullet to your leg that might otherwise have gone through my head. I owe you my life, Jim.”

“It’s James. I’m told I owe you the same.” Anderson looked a little embarrassed. “Well, they did think that you might have shot yourself in the leg. There’s many a soldier doing it, you know, hoping that they might get sent home…”

“I can’t imagine why,” remarked Jim dryly. Anderson didn’t catch the underlying tone. “Exactly! When I heard about that, I just couldn’t believe it…” he kept talking. Jim looked the stout man in the eye, and knew that he knew exactly what Jim had meant.

“Anderson! Might Private Moriarty and I have a little privacy?” he said, interrupting the man’s tirade about honour. “Of course, sir. I shall be just outside the door, sir.” He turned sharply on his heel and walked away. “You too, Nurse Hooper.”

The nurse that had been tending to Jim simply nodded. “Yes sir.” Jim watched her go. “Why?”

“Because, Private, I think you’d rather they were gone. Your little remark may have slipped past Anderson, but not me. I’m still unconvinced that you didn’t shoot yourself, but I’m afraid were we to shoot you Anderson might start a mutiny, and we can’t afford that. This shall be your first and last warning: if I hear your name again, you will be tried by courts martial and sentenced to death by firing squad. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” The stout man grinned. “Now rest up. I want you back in the ground as soon as possible.” He patted Jim’s leg, causing him to howl in pain and spit out a string of swearwords that would have made his grandmother cry. The stout man only smiled. “There’s a good lad.” He stood up and tipped his head. “I bid you adieu.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jim got shot, but was he saving Anderson's life or trying to end his own? I'll leave that for you to decide...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives in France, where he meets a strange man leaning up against a wall.

If Sherlock Holmes wasn’t happy to see France, France seemed even less happy to see him. From the moment they hit shore it rained with no signs of stopping. It soaked everyone through to the bone, and really set a tone of pure misery. Sherlock just felt sorry for the poor foot soldiers, who had to trudge through the mud in their boots. They marched through countryside and villages, and came face to face with the people who had lost the most throughout the course of the war.

They eventually stopped by what the officer told them was a military base, but to Sherlock it looked more like a campsite. John Watson was appalled. “They’re keeping dying men in these?” he asked, gesturing to the tents. “No wonder they’re dropping like flies.” Sherlock had to agree.

“Cavalry unit, fall out! Get your horses settled, gentlemen. They’ve had a long journey.”

“Yes sir!” Sherlock hesitated before dismounting. The floor was covered in filth, and Sherlock wasn’t convinced it was just mud. _The time for fussiness has passed,_ his mind reminded him. _You’re going to be filthy, one way or another._

He led Redmane over to the stables, grateful to get out of the rain. There were plenty of stalls free, and Sherlock chose the furthest stall away from the entrance.

“Hello, little brother.” Sherlock almost jumped out of his skin. “Hello, Mycroft.” Mycroft smiled. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, but I did rather hope to keep you out of this war. Weren’t you meant to be going to Cambridge?”

“Stop it.” Sherlock gritted his teeth. Mycroft laughed. “Oh, Sherlock. At least you’re in the cavalry. Father says they don’t do much.”

“More than you do, stuck in your warm office while you send others to their deaths,” retorted Sherlock. “Careful, now, Sherlock,” tutted Mycroft. “We’re not at home anymore. You could be tried by courts martial for that.”

“As if the Germans aren’t killing enough people, now high command have joined in too,” commented Sherlock. Mycroft tilted his head. “You know, I just met a fellow in the hospital who’s had a bullet put through his leg. You remind me of him a little.”

“He’s got common sense too?”

“One could say that, but then one would be committing treason.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft took a step towards him. “Sherlock, promise me you’ll be careful. The Germans are only half the battle; the real problem is inside our camps. If you are heard saying something you shouldn’t, you will be courts martialled, and I cannot guarantee I can help. Remember that.” He turned on his heel and walked away. Sherlock resisted the temptation to put his finger in the air after him.

“Cheerful bloke, your brother.”

Sherlock made a non-committal noise and carried on grooming Redmane. Lestrade leaned against the wall of the stall. “I have to say, you don’t look very alike. But then again, neither do my brother and I.” Sherlock carried on working. “Sherlock, we’re going out this evening. John and I and few of the other fellows. I was wondering if you might join us for a couple of drinks.”

“I’m not old enough to drink,” said Sherlock. “It’s not really my sort of thing, either. Have fun.” Lestrade seemed to get the message and sloped off.

It was dark by the time Sherlock had finished grooming Redmane, and the rest of the company had gone into the little village not far away for a couple of drinks. Sherlock went for a walk around the base, taking in his new environment. There was a provisions tent, a weaponry tent, and one building that seemed to be serving as a hospital, judging by the white circle with a big red cross painted on the side of it. Next to the circle stood a man with a tatty, blood soaked bandage wrapped around his leg and a cigarette in between his lips. Sherlock couldn’t help but stare as he blew a perfect smoke ring into the cool air.

The man noticed his staring. “Want one?” he asked. Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t smoke. I’m only seventeen.”

“I’m nineteen, and you’re going to die anyway. Who cares what mummy thinks when you’re hours away from death.” Sherlock said nothing, and the man laughed. “Oh, look, I’ve frightened you.”

“Have not,” retorted Sherlock. He walked right over to the man and leaned up against the wall next to him. “What happened to your leg?”

“Got shot.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Thank you; I worked that out for myself. Who shot you?” the man smiled. “There you go. Asking the right questions.” He spat his cigarette onto the floor and stamped on it with great difficulty. He pulled a packet out of his pocket and got a fresh one, and offered the pack to Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated before taking one. The man grinned. “Atta boy.”

Sherlock coughed and spluttered as he puffed. “The first one’s always the hardest. After that, you’re hooked. Here,” he tossed Sherlock the packet. “You’ll want these in a couple of hours.”

“What’s your name?” asked Sherlock. “Private James Moriarty, at your service.” James gave a mock salute. “And you are?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“So, Sherlock, what part of this Mickey Mouse operation are you part of?” Sherlock laughed. “Cavalry.”

“Lucky bastard. Watch your horse around the rats. They’re vicious buggars that’ll have your hand if you’re not careful.” Sherlock nodded. “Noted. Any other tips?” James laughed. “You’re asking the man who got shot for tips.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You seem to know a lot. You look a lot older than nineteen you know.” James gave a sad smile. “It’s the dirt that never really comes out of your clothes and under your fingernails, no matter how hard you scrub. It’s the stress of constantly being kept awake by shells landing pretty much directly on top of you, and it’s the terror that comes when you do close your eyes. You want a tip? I’ll give you a tip: don’t make friends. It just makes it so much harder when their lifeless corpse is being thrown into a mass grave.”

Sherlock was horrified. He knew what war was like, but to hear it from someone first hand made it so much realer. It made his stomach turn and the blood drain from his face.

“Are you frightened yet?” asked James darkly. Sherlock nodded. “Good. Only a stupid man wouldn’t be, and you don’t strike me as stupid, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock tried another drag on his cigarette. “It gets easier,” James told him. He spat out his own cigarette on the ground next to his first one, and turn on his crutches. “I’ll see you around, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jim and Sherlock have met!  
> Comments and Kudos really are appreciated...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock witnesses his first death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda heavy chapter, but nothing that isn't really to be expected in a fic that's set during a world war...

Sherlock was miserable. There was no two ways about it. Every time he propped himself up against a wall, wrapped in a scarf with a mug of tea and a cigarette, he thought of his room at home, warm and filled with books. When the rain came down in lashes and no amount of waterproof clothing could keep him dry, he thought of cosy evenings by the fireplace with Mother. But most of all, he thought back to what James Moriarty had told him on his first night in France. “ _Don’t make friends,”_ he’d said. Of course, Sherlock already knew John Watson and Greg Lestrade, but he actively avoided in engaging in conversation with the rest of his unit. It didn’t help.

The first man to die was an old man, older than Sherlock’s father by the looks of him. He was killed in a fire caused by the explosion of a German artillery shell right next to the cavalry store room. Sherlock had been on watch when the whistles started blowing. “Fire!” yelled a man from a different unit. Sherlock scrambled for his own whistle. He blew as hard as he could; only pausing to shout “Fire!”

The men from his unit ran out of their bunk, some dressed, and some only in their undershirts. They ran for buckets of water and sand, running back and forth and back and forth. The gas masks came out as the smoke billowed black, spiralling upwards and outwards towards them. More men ran to help, and gradually the fire was contained, and then extinguished. That was when John Watson noticed. “Where’s Bill?” he asked. Sherlock looked around for the old man, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. “He’s back in the bunker, the bloody coward!” shouted one of the men. “Sherlock, run and have a look see if Bill’s in the bunker,” Lestrade told him.

 _If he is in the bunker, he’d do well to run,_ thought Sherlock as he jogged. _They could have him shot for this._ “Bill?” he called out. “Bill!”

A quick sweep of the room told him that Bill wasn’t there. _Surely he can’t have deserted…_ “Lestrade! Bill’s not in the bunker!” A group of men turned round to face him. “Sherlock, my lad, stay where you are,” Lestrade warned him. “There’s been a horrible accident.”

Sherlock pushed through. “What’s happened?” He peered over the shoulders of the men in his unit, and wished he hadn’t. John Watson knelt on the floor, next to what Sherlock presumed used to be Bill, but was now a partially blackened corpse. Sherlock felt sick as the burning smell clogged his nostrils and his throat gagged at the sight of blackened flesh.

“And so passes Bill, who died with honour fighting for King and for country, and who we pray shall be welcomed into the kingdom of heaven, where he must fight no more. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Sherlock didn’t sleep that night.

*****

Jim watched the cavalry store room go up in flames. He could have rushed to help, but his leg wasn’t really strong enough to rush anywhere, and quite frankly, he just didn’t care. He took a drag on his cigarette and watched as men ran to and fro, trying to quell the flames. Eventually, the flames died out, and Jim saw a group of men standing around looking for something. He listened as best he could.

“Sherlock, run and have a look see if Bill’s in the bunker,” said a silver haired man. Jim watched a scrawny boy run off, and tried to remember why that name was significant to him. “Poor lad,” one of the men was saying. “He’s too young for all this really.” The others murmured in assent as another man pulled a body (or what Jim thought to be a body) out from the wreckage. “Can’t let the lad see that,” said the man who’d sent Sherlock running. Jim snorted. They all seemed to have a father complex for this Sherlock, who Jim _knew_ he’d met before…

Sherlock came running back, and that was when it hit Jim. _Sherlock was the name of the lad I gave my cigarettes to the other night,_ he realised. _The seventeen year old who looked terrified when I opened my mouth._ Jim watched as the silver haired man tried to stop him from seeing the body, but the stupid kid insisted. He listened as they said a quick prayer and tipped their hats, and then decided he’d had enough fresh air and exercise for one day. He limped back to the bunk he’d temporarily been assigned and lay back on the pillows.

There was certainly something to be said about Sherlock. He wasn’t that much younger than Jim, but Jim still managed to feel at least forty when he looked at Sherlock’s face. He just seemed so pure, and innocent, like he’d grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Now that he’d witnessed his first death, that innocent look would drain away into a sort of numb deadness in his eyes, and those cheekbones would become even more prominent as he got used to the horror that would surround him. He’d become a dead man, a walking skeleton just like Jim had, and Jim felt sick to his stomach. Trying to ignore the nausea, he rolled over and tried to get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, big day for Sherlock, even if it's not one that you can find a card for. "Baby's first scarring experience" anyone?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock have another catch up.

After Bill died, Sherlock shut himself off completely. He ate alone, stood watch alone, smoked alone. It was frightening just how quickly he’d gotten hooked on cigarettes, and he was almost out. He pulled the second to last cigarette out of the packaging, making a mental note to find out where to get more. Sherlock’s mind wandered to the man who’d given him the cigarettes. Private James Moriarty. He remembered how he’d leaned against the wall, hair pushed back, and blown a perfect ring of smoke. Sherlock tried to do the same.

It wasn’t as easy as it looked, Sherlock discovered quickly. James must have been smoking for years to get his flawless circles. It was odd. James was only nineteen, but he talked as if he’d been here for years.  _War really does change a man._

Sherlock jumped out of his skin when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Whirling round, he came face to face with the person he’d just been thinking about. “Is that your knife in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?” asked James with a smooth Irish voice. Sherlock flushed. “Sorry, I… I just thought…”

“You thought I was a German soldier, coming to do you in.” Sherlock stammered as he tried to think of something equally witty to say. James lifted an eyebrow. “Cat got your tongue?”

He nodded to the cigarette. “That was quick.”

“It’s your fault. Now I’ll never stop smoking.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“You’re welcome.” James leaned up against the wall. “Care to share? I’m fresh out.” Sherlock frowned. “Share?”

“You know, it’s where you take a drag, and then I take a drag, and then you take a drag... get the picture?” explained Jim in a patronising way that instantly got under Sherlock’s skin. “I know what sharing is!” he took a deep draw on the cigarette, and handed it to James. “Thanks pal.”

They stood in silence, passing the cigarette back and forth. “Where do you get these from?” asked Sherlock. “Just buy them in the village. There’s one shopkeeper who’ll give you two packs for the price of one if you ask in French.”

“How’s your leg?” asked Sherlock after another period of silence. “You never did tell me who shot it.” James smiled. “What would you do if I told you it was me?” he asked. “Sympathise,” Sherlock told him. “But I know it wasn’t you.” James raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“Well, from what I know of you, you seem fairly intelligent. You know there are two ways home from this war; in a casket, or if you’re sent home. Most men aren’t willing to die, so they’ll injure themselves to try and get sent home by shooting themselves in the foot or suchlike. Your wound is in your upper thigh, which is very nearly impossible to aim one’s own gun at. No, I’ll bet that you went over the top just before I got here, and got shot there. You were likely jumping, given the position of the wound, but why? You probably weren’t jumping in front of a bullet to save a fellow soldier, and I doubt you’d deliberately put yourself in harm’s way, so I would guess you were jumping over an obstruction on the ground; a rat, or a dead comrade most likely. Am I right?”

James laughed, and Sherlock froze. _What have I gotten wrong?_ “Oh, Sherly, you are precious,” laughed James. “Even I don’t know what happened, but I do rather like your theory.” He dug in his pocket. “Here; take these.” He handed Sherlock a second box of cigarettes. “I thought you were fresh out?” said Sherlock. James smirked again. “Don’t believe everything you’re told.”

*****

Jim grinned as Sherlock struggled to cope with what had just happened. He was actually quite cute, in a way… _Oh no,_ Jim told himself firmly. _That’s what got you into this mess in the first place._ “So, Sherlock, how was your first death?” Sherlock froze. “How do you know…?” Jim shrugged. “I have my ways. Old Bill, wasn’t it?” Sherlock nodded. “It’s not fair,” he whispered. “He was so old. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“And people our age do?” countered Jim. “Sherlock, this is war. War isn’t fair. Your brother and the other generals can get on their high horses all they want and preach about morals and ethics, but when it all comes down to it, there are men on both sides of No Man’s Land who are just following orders.”

“My brother?” asked Sherlock, tilting his head to one side. Jim sighed. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that Sherlock _Holmes_ might be related to Mycroft _Holmes_. Brother was a lucky guess.”

Jim blew a smoke ring into the air and handed the cigarette back to Sherlock. “Do you have any brothers?” asked Sherlock.

“No brothers, but I’ve got a little sister who means the world to me,” Jim confessed. He still got letters from her sometimes, and despite his parent’s warnings to never contact her, he always wrote back.

“I don’t have any sisters,” said Sherlock. “I often wonder how different life would be if I had one, though.” Jim shrugged. “They’re an absolute pain. They tattle on you as soon as they can talk, and all they do is follow you around, just talking at you, but you love them all the same.” Jim decided to change the subject before he got too sentimental. “You got yourself a girl?” he asked Sherlock. Sherlock flushed. “Not really…”

“Come on, a handsome lad like you? I bet the girls back home were fawning all over you,” Jim teased. “Well, I had one girl…” Sherlock trailed off.

“Well? What’s she like? What’s her name?”

“She’s called Irene, and she’s the vicar’s daughter. She plans to marry me if I get back.” Jim sensed something off in Sherlock’s tone. “Let me guess. This girl has always had a thing for you, and as you got older it got worse. You decided to just go with it, maybe break it off when you went away to study at university, but she wasn’t having any of it, and her father either. Now this poor girl’s got it into her head that the two of you are destined to be together forever, joined in holy matrimony in the eyes of the Lord?”

Sherlock just sort of mumbled, which Jim took as a yes. He softened his tone. “What was wrong, Sherlock? Sounds like a perfect life to me.” Of course, it didn’t, but Sherlock didn’t need to know that.

“I just think girls aren’t really my area. I think I’d rather just stay single and unmarried for the rest of my life than go through the whole process of finding a girl I won’t just get bored with, getting married, starting a family…”

Jim made a sympathetic noise. “Amen.” Sherlock grinned suddenly. “So, what about you, James? How many broken hearts has James Moriarty left behind him?”

“None,” said Jim firmly. “Girls aren’t really my area either.”  _Oh God I hope he doesn’t catch the meaning behind that…_ Sherlock simply grinned. “That’s refreshing. All the other men talk about their wives or girlfriends and they hang up pictures and say goodnight to them.” Sherlock pulled a face, and Jim had to laugh. “It’s the same with my unit. There’s this one idiot, Anderson, who insists on crying every time he reads a letter from his girlfriend.”

“So how come no girlfriends, James?”

“It’s Jim,” Jim found himself correcting. “And like I said, girls aren’t really my area.”

“Interesting,” said Sherlock. “What?” asked Jim. “Nothing. Just creating a mental database.” Jim rolled his eyes. There really was something about this kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry updates are getting more erratic (is that spelled right?), but there's lots going on atm...  
> But yeah, these adorable douchebags are hanging on in there.  
> Comments & Kudos accepted!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new battle plan is in the works, and Jim writes home.

“What if we were to send foot soldiers and cavalry over?” asked one of the more senior generals, an elderly fellow with a big handlebar moustache. “Have a sort of double attack?”

“No!” blurted out Mycroft. Every head in the room whipped round to stare accusingly at him. “Beg pardon,” he tried, “But you see, the sensible choice of cavalry unit is the unit containing my younger brother.”

A couple of men made sympathetic faces, but Handlebar Man simply frowned. “Holmes, every man in that unit is someone’s younger brother, or son, or nephew or father. Why are your relatives exempt?” Mycroft dipped his head. “No reason, sir.” Handlebar Man nodded. “One more outburst like that and I’ll have you removed. Understand?”

“Yes sir.” Mycroft sent out a quick mental prayer as Handlebar Man began discussing strategies. _Please, Lord, if you’re listening, save Sherlock. Just let him be okay. Just let him live._

*****

Jim just couldn’t believe it. Two days he’d been back, and now they were planning another trip across No Man’s Land. “Brilliant. Fucking brilliant,” he muttered. “It’s not like I wanted to live anyway.”

He gave serious thought to deserting before deciding it wasn’t worth it. _Where would I go, even if I did leave? I’ve got no one. I couldn’t go home, they’d just send me right back again, then I’d get shot for desertion. No, I might as well die with a little bit of honour left._

He decided to write to his sister for all the use it would do.

_Dear Mary,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner. I was shot in the leg, you see, and while everything’s fine now, it certainly wasn’t a week or two ago. I can’t remember what happened, but I’m told that I jumped in front of a bullet to save my unit leader’s life. That doesn’t sound very like me, does it?_

_Whilst I was on ‘sick leave’, a new batch of troops came in. I met a boy around your age named Sherlock. He’s a handsome enough lad, and he seems to have been brought up well. It’s a shame; were we to have met under different circumstances, I might have been able to introduce him to you, and maybe the next time I would be in a church would be for your wedding, rather than my own funeral. I’m sure I’m not supposed to write like that for the sake of public morale, but I don’t really care._

_Remember to hide this letter from Mother and Father; I know how they hate me writing to you._

_With love,_

_Jim_

He didn’t bother telling her about the scheduled offensive; it would only worry her and would probably be edited out anyway. He just wanted Mary to have something to hold onto if, or rather, when he died.

“Jim! Finally writing home to your folks, eh?” Anderson strolled up to him uninvited. “Your poor mother probably thinks you’re dead by now.”

“More like hopes,” muttered Jim under his breath. Anderson either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. “I’ve been given a little more information in regards to the up and coming offensive. The cavalry is joining us this time round. What do you think of that?”

“Wonderful,” said Jim. “Hopefully this time I won’t get shot.” Anderson laughed. “You’ve just recovered from your last shooting!”

 _Wrong,_ thought Jim, eyeing the walking stick propped up against his knee. He just conjured the best laugh he could than mustered a yawn. “Goodness, I’m tired. I think I shall put this letter in the post and go to bed. Good night, Anderson.”

“Good night, Jim.” Anderson sank down onto his own bed as Jim grabbed his stick and limped out to the post box in the pouring rain. _God, does it ever stop raining?_ Jim wondered.

He almost didn’t notice the young man brushing down his horse until he almost walked into them. “Watch it!” said the man. “It took me forever to calm him down!”

“Sherlock?”

“Jim?” the young man lifted his head, and Jim found himself staring at the increasingly familiar face of Sherlock Holmes. “We really must stop meeting like this,” said Jim.

“People might think we’re doing it on purpose,” joked Sherlock. “What brings you out into the rain?” Jim waved his letter. “Sending my sister a letter. What about you? What got your horse so worked up?” Sherlock sighed. “Someone came up behind him and spooked him on purpose. One of your lot, I should imagine.”

“One of my lot?” Jim repeated, eyebrows raised. “Please, explain!”

“You know,” teased Sherlock. “One of you peasants without horses.” Jim pretended to be offended. “Oh? Peasants, are we? Well, please, Lord Horse Shit, let me scrape your boots for you.” They both laughed. “Maybe it was me who spooked your horse, just because that’s the kind of thing that I, as a peasant, enjoy doing.”

“I know it wasn’t you, you haven’t been outside all day.” Jim creased his brow. “How did you know?” Sherlock simply smiled. “I’m very good at the art of deduction.” Jim stood taller. “Go on then. Deduce me.”

Sherlock didn’t have to be told twice. “You’re stood out here with a letter in your hand, claiming that you only left to mail it. You’re not wearing a jacket, implying that you didn’t know it was raining, even though it’s been raining all day. You don’t look nearly dishevelled enough to have been outside for any length of time, and may I please have your hand?”

Jim held out his hand, and Sherlock clasped it between his. “Just as I thought. Your hands are quite warm, which would be impossible for anyone who had been outside today.” Jim blinked. “Incredible. How much about a person can you tell from deducing them?”

“More than they want to know,” said Sherlock quietly. “It’s gotten me into quite a bit of trouble.” Jim laughed. “I can imagine.”

“You don’t have to imagine though, do you?” said Sherlock. “The second time we met, the time we shared a cigarette, you ‘guessed’ my situation to the letter. I think you’re smarter than you let on, Jim. What happened? How did someone as a smart as you end up here?”

Jim went quiet. “I’m not sure I want to tell you that,” he said. Sherlock understood: _back off, or you and I are going to fall out._ “You were on your way to the post box?” he said awkwardly.

Jim walked off with as much dignity as he could muster. He honestly hadn’t meant to close up like that, but there were some things he just wasn’t ready to tell Sherlock just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute bitch to write. Trying to capture that kind of awkward phase between 'we just met' and 'I want to viciously make out with you' is difficult...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock writes home, and Jim's sister responds to his letter. Mycroft reveals something about Jim to Sherlock.

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner. I simply haven’t the time- there’s always something to do! The weather here is miserable, similar to back home actually. When it’s not tipping down, it’s drizzling, and we have the occasional hot day to enjoy. I dread to think what the winter weather’s like!_

_Redmane hates it here. He hates being constantly wet and muddy, and someone keeps spooking him. I suspect it’s one of the foot soldiers, and should I ever catch him, he can be the one to receive a hoof to the stomach trying to calm a jittery horse._

_Mycroft, on the other hand, seems to be doing well from the little I see of him. He rarely bothers to come where there’s mud to dirty his boots, and if he does it’s rarely good news. He seems to be the elected bearer of bad news, but other than that he looks happy and well fed and well rested._

_Sherlock_

Sherlock signed his name with a flourish and sealed the letter. Seeing Jim with his letter had reminded him that he needed to write to his parents. He couldn’t face writing to Irene; every time he thought of her, Jim’s voice floated through his mind. _‘Joined together in holy matrimony…’_

Sherlock shuddered at the thought. However hard he tried, he just couldn’t picture a future with Irene where they were both happy. His mind wandered back to Jim. How did he not have a girlfriend? He was quite handsome… of course, if you were into that sort of thing…

Sherlock flushed. Of course he wasn’t into that sort of thing! He was a civilized, respected, well-bred human being, not some dirty animal! He had a beautiful young lady waiting for him back home, thank you, and he most definitely was not interested in Jim Moriarty.

What he needed was some fresh air to clear his head. He’d been sat indoors for too long, that was it. He picked up his letter and headed out into the fresh air, most definitely not looking around for a certain brown haired Irishman.

Sherlock would never admit his heart sank a little bit when he couldn’t see Jim milling about. _What is wrong with me?!_ He thought. _I need to pull myself together. I’ll post this letter and go for a cigarette. That’ll clear my head._

*****

_Dear Jim,_

_You might well be sorry! I’ve been worried sick! And with good reason, it seems. Shot in the leg! I’m going to trust that you didn’t shoot yourself; one hears stories. I very much doubt that you dramatically jumped in front of your unit leader, but I don’t think you’re stupid enough to shoot yourself and miss, if you know what I mean…_

_New troops are going to be coming thick and fast; they’ve started conscription here, Jim. It’s horrifying. That nice lad from down the road, Mr Vince’s boy John, he’s been drafted. It was awful. The sergeant had to pull him away. I shouldn’t doubt that your Sherlock didn’t sign up voluntarily but was rather forced in. Anyway, he seems more your type than mine, if you can catch my drift! After all, if he’s game, why not? In any case, I still want to meet him, so you both must be careful to bring yourselves home safe! Mother and Father may not be interested, but I still love you, big brother._

_Lots of love,_

_Mary x_

Jim read the letter from his sister and almost cried. He could very nearly hear her voice, telling him about the grocer’s boy John. Had Sherlock joined voluntarily, or had he been a victim of conscription? Jim had assumed that he’d signed up under pressure from friends or family or whatever. He hadn’t known about the conscription.

He had to know. He had to do whatever he could for that boy, to make sure he was alright. An uncharacteristic wave of compassion washed over Jim. _God damn my sister,_ he thought to himself, _but she’s right._ He dragged himself outside, scanning the crowd for a sign of the cavalry soldier.

There! Jim saw him, stood with a cigarette practicing smoke rings. He couldn’t help but smile as he made his way through the mud. “Sherlock, I have something to ask,” said Jim, not wasting time with meaningless courtesies. “Hello, Jim,” said Sherlock. “Sherlock, did you sign up voluntarily?” asked Jim. Sherlock met his eyes. “No,” he said finally. “I didn’t.”

“That’s not right,” said Jim, feeling the anger bubble inside him. “That’s not fair, not at all!”

“Jim!” Sherlock interrupted him before he could say anything that could get him into trouble, glancing around them for anyone who might care what they were saying. “You must be careful,” he warned him. “I don’t want you getting shot just because you said the wrong thing. I’d miss you,” he said, trying to play it off lightly. Jim stopped seething. “You would?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “Who else has a never ending supply of cigarettes and black humour?” he teased. Jim glared. “Who else will put up with your seventeen year old bullshit?”

“Eighteen,” corrected Sherlock. “It was my birthday yesterday.” He smiled dryly to himself. “One of the more… memorable birthdays I’ve had.” Jim laughed. “I’ll bet. Did mummy and daddy send you cake?”

“Maybe,” said Sherlock. “But Mycroft will have had it out of the package.” They both laughed. “I must admit, your brother does strike me as one who is somewhat attached to his cake,” said Jim, laughing. Sherlock smiled. “Once when we were young, he stole my cake while mother was out of the room. He told me it was an older brother tax, which meant that he got my cake because he had to deal with an annoying little brother. When mother found out, she was furious.”

“I can imagine!” laughed Jim.

“Speak of the devil,” muttered Sherlock. Jim glanced over his shoulder to see Mycroft Holmes strolling towards them. He couldn’t help but cause trouble. “Look sharp, boys!” he shouted. “Else Officer Holmes will have your cake off you for a month!”

Sherlock very nearly wet himself laughing, and Jim quickly decided it was a good look on him. However, the elder Holmes brother was less than amused. “Private Moriarty,” he said slowly. “Always a pleasure.”

“Good to see you again, Holmes. The leg’s healing beautifully, thanks for asking.” Mycroft ignored him, turning his attention towards Sherlock. “I’m sorry I forgot to come and see you yesterday, brother mine,” he said. “Very important matters to attend to down at HQ, you understand.”

“More important than your own brother’s eighteenth?” queried Jim. “Private Moriarty, if you do not cease speaking, I shall have your tongue removed,” said Mycroft, exasperated.

“Mycroft, that was unnecessary,” chided Sherlock. “He’s just having a little fun; Lord knows we need it nowadays.” Mycroft looked furious. “Fun? Fun is for children, Sherlock. You’re eighteen now, you have no time for fun. We are soldiers in the middle of the war to end all wars, and you want to have fun? The both of you are going over the top in three days’ time,” said Mycroft. “My word, Mycroft, is that a hint of sentiment I detect?,” said Sherlock, bitterly. “Something I thought you officers were above.”

“Sherlock, stop it. We’re in a war for Pete’s sake, and you want to have pitiful little squabbles now?” Mycroft pulled a package from his jacket pocket. “Here. Mother sent you this, and I believe there’s a little something from Miss Adler in there too.” Sherlock took the brown paper package. Mycroft tapped his heels together. “Oh, Sherlock, before I go, I’d like a word in private.” He glanced pointedly at Jim, who mimicked Mycroft tapping his heels together and marched off.

Sherlock watched him go with a smile. “What is it?” he asked his brother. “I wanted to talk to you regarding Private Moriarty,” said Mycroft. “There’s something about him you ought to know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft, whatever he’s done, I’m sure every man in the army has done it a thousand times.”

“Sherlock, Private Moriarty is a homosexual!” blurted out Mycroft. “He was found in the streets with nothing but the clothes on his back by the Belfast recruitment squad, and after a little digging, they learned that his parents threw him out of their home after finding him in a… compromising position with another male.”

Sherlock drew up short. He knew he ought to say something to defend his friend, but homosexuality was a sin… or so they said… Mycroft mistook his silence for contempt, and nodded smugly. “Just as I thought. Watch your distance.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Grand Offensive begins, and Sherlock is by no means ready for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for blood and violence, as would be expected in a war. If you can't read it, I'll summarise in the notes :)  
> Sorry it's been a while, but real life is a killer.

“For King and country!” Lestrade gave Sherlock’s hand a reassuring pat. “Just stay behind me. You’ll be alright, son.” Sherlock nodded, too afraid to say anything. He’d spent all night staring up at the ceiling in the dugout, praying like he had never done before for his safety, for Lestrade’s safety, for Watson’s safety, for Jim’s safety. He would have prayed for Mycroft’s safety if he hadn’t known that Mycroft wouldn’t even get mud on his boots let alone a bullet in his chest.

“Please, Lord,” he’d begged silently. “I know that there are men on both sides of No Man’s Land asking you the same. I know there are daughters and wives and sons and sisters in Germany praying for the same thing. Please, Lord. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I want to live. I want my friends to live. I want everyone to just live, especially Jim. I know homosexuality is supposedly a sin, but even a homosexual deserves better than this. Everyone does. Please, Lord, just let everyone live.”

Sat on Redmane now, Sherlock hoped his last minute attempt had worked. He had only a few minutes, if that, before the whistle blew and it was his turn to go up and over the trenches. Sherlock wished he could say he was ready.

His thoughts wandered to Jim who was waiting, without a horse, stood in the mud alongside men he wouldn’t even spit on if they were on fire. The poor soul probably didn’t expect to come back alive. _The poor soul probably didn’t want to._

A shrill sound pierced the air, and all around him, the men in Sherlock’s unit raised their swords. “For King and country!” they shouted in unison before spurring their horses into action.

Sherlock dug his heels into Redmane’s side and charged. Redmane jumped over the trench wall, and Sherlock was treated to the uncensored horror that was the battle field. Already, there were men lying on the floor, bleeding. Some of the horses tried to throw their riders, terrified by all the carnage surrounding them. Sherlock clung tight onto Redmane, and pushed him onwards. “Lestrade!” he shouted, looking for the silver haired man. “Sherlock! Sherlock! I’m right here, get behind me!”

Sherlock found where Lestrade’s voice was coming from. “Come on, son. You’re doing well. Stay behind me, and don’t turn back. You know what happens if you turn back.” Sherlock nodded. If he must get shot, he supposed it was better to find an enemy bullet in your brain rather than a bullet from the firing squad.

“Take cover!” someone shouted. Sherlock bolted for the underside of a hill, shielding his face. A loud bang came from somewhere on his right. “The artillery,” he whispered. “They’re using the heavy artillery!”

“Sherlock!”

“Lestrade! Are you alright?” Sherlock’s eyes scanned to find Lestrade. “Down here, Sherlock. I’ll be fine, just pull me out from under my horse. He’s been hit, and I doubt that he’ll make it.” Sherlock leaned down and offered a hand to Lestrade. “You’re wounded!”

“It’s just a bit of shrapnel. I’ll be fine. You go on; I’ll make like a foot soldier from now on.”

“But you’re wounded, you must go back!” Lestrade shook his head. “They’ll just send me right back. Go, Sherlock. Go on without me.” As if to prove his point, Lestrade started to walk away from Sherlock, one hand staunching the flow of blood coming from the hole in his stomach.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted. “Lestrade!!” He was going to die. Sherlock bit his lip, and spurred Redmane into motion, galloping after Lestrade.

“Watch it, soldier! You’re supposed to be over there!” Sherlock glanced down. “Sorry, soldier… Jim!”

“Sherlock! What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Lestrade, he got hit, and he’s gone, I can’t find him…” Jim hushed him. “As much as I’d love to help you, Sherlock, this is a battlefield! He’s gone, and- LOOK OUT!”

Jim jumped up pushed Sherlock from Redmane’s back just in time. A shower of machine gun bullets that would have hit Sherlock square on landed around them, hitting Redmane and other soldiers surrounding them. “Thanks, Jim,” Sherlock panted.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Jim, gritting his teeth. “Take cover!” Sherlock ran, tripping over in the mud. A searing pain shot through his right shoulder.

He fell to the ground, screaming. Before he knew it, Jim’s arm was wrapped around him. “Get up, Sherlock! If you stay there, you’re dead!”

Sherlock tried to focus his mind through his pain. Jim’s Irish accent sounded far away, and a white haze covered his vision.

 _Get up,_ a voice told him. _You have to get up._ Sherlock forced his legs into action. A supporting arm wrapped itself round his waist, and he leaned on it gratefully.

Jim could see Sherlock trying to bring himself back. “We don’t have time for this,” he muttered under his breath. Looking around for a safe place to take cover for the seemingly never ending hail of machine gun fire, he scooped Sherlock up. He ran towards a pit in the ground, one that hadn’t yet been filled with gas, although Jim supposed there wasn’t much time before the Jerrys started deploying the gas bombs. He dumped Sherlock on the ground. “Sherlock, listen to me. Come back. If you lose conscience, you’ll die.”

A hand gripped his arm. “I’m here. I wish I wasn’t.” Jim shook his head. “Don’t be such a drama queen. Sit up. I’ll take a look at your shoulder.” He pulled Sherlock up by his left arm. “I see the entrance wound.” _It’s impossible not to; look at all that blood._ Jim shushed the voice in his head. “I don’t see an exit wound. We need to get that bullet out, otherwise it’s going to fester.” Sherlock nodded. “It’s going to hurt,” Jim warned him. “Bite down on the strap of your gas mask box.”

Sherlock’s eyes were a mixture of pain and apprehension as he placed the leather strap in his mouth and looked at Jim expectantly. “I’m so sorry,” Jim said before diving straight in. Sherlock screamed in pain. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but it’s got to be done. Stay still for me.” He peered into the gaping hole in Sherlock’s shoulder. “I see the bullet,” he told him. “But it’s wedged in. I’m going to use my knife and cut it out, alright?” Without waiting for an answer, he reached for his knife from his belt. As a brief thought, he grabbed Sherlock’s hand. “Squeeze down on my hand,” he said. “Squeeze on my hand if it helps.”

With a quick deep breath, Jim stuck his knife in Sherlock’s shoulder. Almost instantly, Sherlock’s hand tightened round his own, grinding his fingers together. Jim ground his teeth together as he manoeuvred his knife around in Sherlock. “Almost finished, Sherly, I promise.”

One more push with the knife, and the bullet fell into Jim’ hand, along with what looked like about six litres of blood. Jim knew it had to be less than that, but Sherlock was losing a lot of blood…

“FALL BACK! FALL BACK!”

“Hear that, Sherly? They’re going to send the stretchers out in a minute. They’re gonna come and get you.”

Sherlock simply nodded. He looked pale and sweaty, and the blood was still flowing. Jim stood up. “Hey! Hello! We need a stretcher over here! Man wounded!!”

He stood shouting and waving until he saw a pair of men jogging across the fields towards them. “He’s just here, boys. He’s had a bullet to the shoulder.” The medics hauled Sherlock onto the stretcher. Jim watched it turn red under Sherlock’s body.

“Are you alright, private?” asked one of the medics. “Yes, doctor, I’m fine. Is Sherlock going to be alright?”

“Sherlock?” asked the medic. “Not Sherlock Holmes?” Jim nodded. “I’ll tell his brother.” The medic snorted. “Rather you than me.” He picked up his end of the stretcher and jogged back across the field.

Jim ran after them, except rather than turn right after the trenches to get to the hospital, he kept running all the way to high command, where he arrived, sweaty and panting.

“Can I help you, Private?” A stern looking man in a decorative uniform stared down at him. Jim nodded, trying to catch his breath. “I… I…”

“You look as if you need a stiff drink,” the man informed him. Jim shook his head. “No! Well, yes, but… I came for Mycroft Holmes…”

“Officer Holmes,” the man corrected him. “Who shall I tell him is asking for him?”

“Private James Moriarty.” The man nodded, and disappeared to find Mycroft. Jim collapsed onto the ground, and tried to keep his thoughts from wandering to the events of the past few hours.

“Private Moriarty.” Jim looked up. “Holmes! Your brother, he’s been shot. I did all I could, but he might not make it. He’s lost a lot of blood, and it’s probably infected…”

“Hold on, Sherlock’s been shot?” Mycroft blinked slowly. “Sherlock’s been shot…”

“He’s still alive,” Jim said. “Or he was when I last saw him. The medics came and got him. He’s in the hospital now.” Mycroft didn’t say a word to Jim, simply walking out. Jim pulled himself together and ran after him. “Where do you think you’re going, Private?” asked Mycroft. “Sherlock’s in hospital,” said Jim.

“Yes, and I thank you for informing me. Your work here is done,” said Mycroft coldly. “No, it’s not,” said Jim, not caring that he was being disrespectful towards a superior. “Sherlock is my friend, and I want to be there for him.”

“Sherlock doesn’t need friends like you,” said Mycroft. “He already has friends back home.” Jim could feel his temper flaring. “And what good are his friends back home right now? Did his friends from back home dig the bullet out of him? Did his friends back home have their fingers broken while they gave him a hand to hold? Did his friends from back home shout themselves hoarse waving for the stretcher?”

“Congratulations, Private. A medal shall find its way to you promptly.”

“I don’t want a medal!” Jim shouted. “I want you to recognise that I’m not some asshole who wants to bang your baby brother stupid!”

“How dare you address your superior officer like that?” Mycroft spat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Private, you are obviously quite beside yourself. You are dismissed. I would suggest that you see a nurse about that hand after you’ve calmed down.”

Mycroft walked off without a word, and Jim would have liked to have been able to claim he was the bigger man and didn’t stick two fingers up behind the other man’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes over the top, and Lestrade gets wounded by a piece of shrapnel. Sherlock manages to find Jim in the carnage, but gets shot. Jim does his best to help him live, and Sherlock is whisked off to hospital while Jim goes to fetch Mycroft.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has some visitors in hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I ought to put a trigger warning: Jim finally tells his backstory, and it's got homophobia galore, as was typical. Please, don't risk it, I'll summarise in the bottom notes.

“Sherlock, get up!”

“But Mother, I don’t feel at all well…”

“Well, I know I have a feminine voice, but I didn’t think it was that bad.” Sherlock opened his eyes, and immediately started blushing. “Sorry, Jim, I suppose I forgot…”

Jim smiled. “That’s alright. How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Sherlock said. “I feel dizzy and sick, and I’ve a banging headache.” Jim smiled again. “That’ll be your hangover from the straight brandy they gave you as anaesthetic. You’ll get used to it in a few years.”

Sherlock propped himself up. “What happened to your hand?” he asked. Jim glanced down at his bandaged hand. “You broke the bones when you squeezed it.” Sherlock bit his lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Jim shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“May I see?” asked Sherlock. Jim shook his head. “Why not?” Sherlock persisted. “I’ve never seen any properly broken bones.”

“No,” said Jim. “And I really must be going.” Sherlock was hurt. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “All I wanted was to look at your hand.”

Jim laughed bitterly. “I heard Mycroft telling you about my little… problem. Aren’t you afraid I’ll pass it on to you?”

“Your little problem…?” Sherlock searched back in his memory. “Mycroft told me you were… oh.” Jim tightened his lips. “Yes, oh. Now, I shall be going.”

“Jim, wait!” Sherlock cried. “I don’t care if you’re a homosexual.” Jim laughed coldly. “Of course you don’t. But you’ll try and ‘convert’ me anyway. Sorry you found out, Sherlock. I really have enjoyed chatting with you.”

“Private James Moriarty you get back here right now!” Sherlock said, trying his best to sound commanding. “I don’t care if you’re a homosexual, heterosexual, or if you’ve slept with one man or one thousand men. All I care is that you are my friend, and you offered me that cigarette on my first night here. I know you have nowhere to go, so come back here right now!”

Jim turned around slowly. “You don’t care?” he said slowly. “You don’t care, but your brother does. What makes you different?”

Sherlock blinked. “Why won’t you just believe me? I’m your friend, I always will be!” Jim sank down onto the chair next to Sherlock’s bed. “If only I could believe that,” he whispered. “But it’s not the first time I’ve heard that, only to have it thrown in my face.” Sherlock stayed silent.

“No doubt dear Mycroft told you about how I wound up here. I was caught in bed with a boy. Not just any boy. My best friend. I’d known him for years, ever since we were boys. We went to school together. We starting experimenting when we were thirteen. It started out innocent enough, just holding hands when no one was looking. Then, as we got older, we got bolder. We started meeting outside of the school yard for secret rendezvous. It was something like you see in the films with hetero couples.”

Sherlock wanted to interrupt, to guess where the story went next, but Jim glared at him. “Once we were older, we started getting more… physical. It was during one of the more intimate rendezvous we were caught. Of course, he denied any willing participation, told them I’d drugged him, told them I forced him, told them this, that, and the other. He broke my heart, and while he went to church I went to war.” Jim’s voice broke a little, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I tried to write to him once. I told him I forgave him for saying those things about me, and that we could still be together. He wrote back after a week. He told me that the priest had helped him see the light, and he now realised how dirty and sinful our infatuation with each other was. He said he realised now that he wasn’t in love, that the devil had tempted him and now he was free.”

Jim stopped talking. “Why are you telling me this?” asked Sherlock after a while. “Why share so much all of a sudden?”

Jim stood up, making to leave. “So you can decide. Are you my friend, Sherlock? Or are you going to listen to what Mycroft says?”

Sherlock sat silently as Jim walked out with as much dignity as he could muster. He had been absolutely right about where Jim’s story was going, but it was still shocking to hear. To think that his best friend had dismissed him as no more than an infatuation, and claimed those awful things about Jim… Of course, Jim’s character was a little darker than most Sherlock had come across, but Sherlock refused to believe that the very man who had saved his life was capable of doing the awful things he was accused of.

It would explain Jim’s frankly self-destructive attitudes, Sherlock thought to himself. Especially since-

“Private!” Sherlock snapped back to reality, only to find his brother sat on the chair that Jim had been occupying a few minutes ago. It felt wrong to see Mycroft sat there, a pudgy round face with thinning hair rather than a smooth pale face framed by soft dark hair…

Sherlock shook himself back awake again, and Mycroft smiled dryly. “It would seem they have you on far too many medications,” he commented. “Well, I did get shot,” Sherlock grumbled. “Yes, and you were smart enough to get shot in the shoulder too. Goodness knows where you’d be if you’d been shot in the foot.” Sherlock was confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked. Mycroft sighed. “Many a man is claiming to have been shot so that he might go home, and we’re having a little trouble up at HQ sorting the liars from the good honest men.”

“I can’t imagine why,” commented Sherlock. Mycroft gave him a strange look. “You know, you’re the second person to say that to me,” he said.

“Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve written home, and mummy and daddy wrote back very promptly. I believe Miss Adler wrote too.” Mycroft handed over an envelope, poorly re-sealed. “Really, Mycroft?” Sherlock called out after his brother, who’d stood and was leaving the hospital. Mycroft ignored him.

After he was gone, Sherlock sat back on his pillow and opened the envelope. He picked out the letter from his parents first.

_Our darling Sherlock,_

_When Mycroft wrote to us telling us you’d been shot, we couldn’t believe it. Our baby (although your father thinks we shouldn’t call you that anymore), lying on death’s door! Thank goodness for the efforts of the brave doctors, or we might have had a very different letter home._

_It does not do to dwell on what might have been, especially when it is such a grim topic. All that you must do now is make sure to get a lot of rest; make the most of your brief holiday. Mycroft says you don’t socialise much with the men in your unit. Your father thinks you ought to make more of an effort to get to know the men fighting by your side, but you do what you consider best, darling._

_Your father is very proud of you. He’s told nearly the whole village how you valiantly took a bullet for king and country! Everyone in the village sends their best regards, and the women in my prayer group send a special blessing (isn’t that lovely of them?). A special prayer is said for you and all the other boys over there in church, after the sermon. Hopefully the Lord will look after you, and all the boys in France, not just the ones in our own trenches. Your father didn’t think I should put that, but the Bible says Love Thy Neighbour, and I think it is especially important in these hard times to remember that._

_Stay safe, and make a full recovery._

_Mummy and Daddy x_

Sherlock couldn’t help but be angry. Of course Mycroft didn’t tell them about Jim, the very man to whom he owed his life. Just because he was a homosexual. Sherlock wondered whether his mother would approve of him befriending a homosexual man. She had said “Love Thy Neighbour”…

He opened up Irene’s letter. Irene would definitely not approve of him socialising with homosexuals.

_Darling Sherlock,_

_I could not believe the news. I have started attending your mother’s prayer group so that I might pray for you, and she broke the news there. I managed to contain myself until I got home, then I cried my eyes out for you. Father told me it was pointless; the only thing that I could do to help you was pray. That’s what I’m doing, Sherlock. I pray for you every night._

_I miss you more than anything in the world. I wish the war would just hurry and end, so that we might be together again. I hope the trauma will not affect you too greatly. One hears stories of men being shipped home, only they’re not quite all there, and the poor people end up in loony hospitals. I’d die if that happened to you, Sherlock. The only thing that gets me through the days is the thought of you coming home, and us getting married, and having children. My father says he’ll marry us as soon as you return. Isn’t that exciting?_

_Stay strong for me._

_Irene xx_

Sherlock could smell a trace of the perfume Irene had taken to wearing during their last few months together, and the smell made his head spin. He put the letter down, and tried to sort himself out.

_…says he’ll marry us as soon as you return… miss you more than anything… having children… Darling Sherlock…_

It was all too much for Sherlock, and he threw up violently, attracting the attention of one of the nurses, who came and held him as he vomited again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim was caught with his best friend, who claimed Jim was forcing him to do things. Jim is sent to war as punishment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft pays his baby brother a visit in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In classic Holmes brothers style, Sherlock and Mycroft end up arguing. Mild homophobia, Mycroft just generally being a bit of an asshole. Oh, I think there's a swearword (maybe two??) in here too. Just FYI :)

Mycroft was worried about Sherlock. It had become a permanent state of affairs as of late, but recently he was worried about his brother’s recovery. He wasn’t progressing as he should, instead the nurses reported that he spent most of his time curled up, not speaking to anyone, refusing painkillers, refusing visitors. Sherlock had never been one for socialising, Lord knows neither of the Holmes brothers were, but this was unusual. There were mutterings amongst officer and soldier alike claiming he was faking, trying to get himself sent home. Mycroft did what he could to stop the men muttering amongst themselves, but the officers were out of his control.

Well, Mycroft was not going to let his brother get courts martialled. Mummy would never forgive him, and the shame would probably finish poor Father off. Plus, it would _not_ reflect well on Mycroft himself if his own brother were to be shot as a coward, and could seriously harm any future opportunities to further his military career. Mycroft marched himself down to the hospital, nose in the air, ready to give his brother a stern talking to.

A friendly looking blonde nurse stopped him at the door. “Excuse me, sir, but who might you be here to see?”

“I’m here to see my brother, Sherlock Holmes,” he replied haughtily, “And before you spout any nonsense about my brother not seeing visitors, I’m certain he’ll see me. Go and tell him it’s me, quick as you like.”

The nurse nodded and walked off. Mycroft snorted under his breath. _Too confident, that one. She’d benefit from a good firm husband and a few children to keep her focused._

He heard snippets of conversation through the door.

“But he’s your brother,” said a woman’s voice softly. “I don’t care,” came the unmistakeable growl of his brother. “I don’t want to see him right now.”

The nurse tutted impatiently. “Come now, this is no time for silly sibling feuding. We must all stick together during these hard times.”  Sherlock sighed deeply. “He doesn’t want to see me,” he said. “He wants to get me up and at it. I’ve heard what they say about me, and Mycroft will have heard it too. He’s come down to persuade me to get out of bed, put the rumours to rest. He can’t have this sort of stain on his impeccable record, not if he wants to further his career.” There was a short pause before Sherlock continued. “And let us all be grateful he’s not looking to pursue a career in espionage, otherwise he really ought to learn how to breathe more quietly.”

“Sherlock, I’m coming in.” Mycroft strode through the door. “And here he comes,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “Mr Team-Talk himself. Do your worst, Mycroft.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I don’t quite know why you’re so angry with me. It’s not my fault you were shot. If anything, you should be angry at the German soldier who put the bullet through your shoulder in the first place.” Sherlock shook his head sadly. “Oh, Mycroft. That German soldier was just following orders. If anything, I should be angry at the politicians who dragged him into their war. I should be angry at the politicians at home who decided they must devastate the whole country be declaring every man must sign up to the army. I should be angry at the old fat men who sit up in their high castle while the young men starve in the trenches.”

“How very philosophical, Sherlock, but talk like that can get a man shot, and the bullet won’t come from across No Man’s Land. In any case, it is no one’s fault but your own that you got shot. You could have moved.”

“I did move!” shouted Sherlock suddenly. “First Redmane was shot, and then if it weren’t for Jim then I might have been killed! And how do you repay the man who saved my life? By telling he’s scum in the eyes of the Lord, by treating him like horse shit on the bottom of your pristine boots!”

“Homosexuality is illegal, Sherlock, and it is no less illegal over here than it is back home! We might be on French soil, but British law is followed here.” Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “And that right there is what’s wrong! People like you are too busy running round in circles after innocent men who have done nothing wrong, rather than focusing on the bigger picture!”

“Sherlock, I do believe this rather pointless argument has blown up somewhat, and I shan’t have any more nonsense. You’re going to get up and come for a walk, no arguments.” Sherlock turned away from him. “You can’t make me.”

“Sherlock, as your commanding officer, I demand that you get out of your bed right this instant!” Sherlock simply laughed and made no attempt to move. The blonde nurse coughed discreetly. “If you please, sir, it’s time for Private Holmes’ bandages to be changed.

Mycroft saw no dignified way out of the situation. “Fine,” he said, trying to sound as calm as possible. “I shall be up in HQ, should I be needed.”

Sherlock watched his brother flounce out with no small amount of satisfaction. The nurse made no comment about what had transpired as she brought over a bowl of steaming hot water and set of fresh white bandages. Sherlock winced as she gently peeled off the blood soaked bandages, and outright screamed as she dabbed the hot wet cloth over the hole in his shoulder. “Sorry, sir,” said the nurse.

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth. “And you really don’t have to call me sir. It’s Sherlock.” The nurse grinned. “Oh, I do love it when you lot are friendly. It’s the ones who think they’re better somehow that get me.” Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Sometimes older men look down their noses at the younger men in the barracks, and I won’t even start on Mycroft and his crew.” The nurse laughed. “It’s sometimes the same here in the hospitals, what with the doctors looking down on the nurses, but I soon sort them out.” Sherlock laughed. “What might your name be?” he asked her. “Mary,” she told him. “Mary Morstan.” Sherlock grimaced as she applied pressure on the wound. “Does it still hurt when I do that?” she asked, a frown appearing on her face. “A little,” Sherlock confessed. “I suppose its futile offering you painkillers?”

“You suppose correctly,” Sherlock told her. Mary nodded. “I’ll just dispose of these old bandages, I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock wasn’t waiting long before she came back. “There’s someone here to see you. The Irish gentleman you had a… heart to heart with some time ago.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Jim’s here?”

Jim hadn’t come to see him since his big reveal. Sherlock felt as if Jim was embarrassed that he’d shared so much with someone he’d barely met, so Sherlock hadn’t expected him to come again.

“Let him in,” said Sherlock. “Please.” Mary smiled as Sherlock pulled himself up on his pillows. Jim sauntered in, and Mary non-too discretely excused herself, claiming to be busy with paperwork.

Jim sat down in the chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “Hey, Sherly.” Sherlock cringed at the nickname. “That’s what you called me when you were digging the bullet out,” he said. Jim smiled. “I did, didn’t I?” He pulled a package out of his pocket. “I got you a little something.”

Sherlock tore off the brown paper to find a packet of cigarettes, with some French writing scrawled across the packaging. “What does this say?” Sherlock asked. “I have no idea,” Jim admitted. “I know enough French to ask for cigarettes and know how much they cost. Other than that, I’m clueless.” Sherlock laughed. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”

He pulled a cigarette out of the packet, and leaned in towards the match Jim lit for him. “So,” said Sherlock, unsure of what he was supposed to say now. “How’s life in the trenches?”

“Don’t give me that, Holmes,” said Jim. “You know exactly what it’s like down there. You’re just using small talk to fill the gap because you’re not sure how to talk to me anymore.”

“What? That’s… Don’t be ridiculous!” Jim rolled his eyes. “That is exactly what is happening, but I don’t mind. At least you’re talking to me. Word has it you’ve been lying in bed throwing yourself a pity party.” Sherlock at least had the grace to blush. “I…”

“Don’t worry about it, Sherly.” They sat in silence for a while.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Sherlock jumped. “What do you mean?”

“You’re thinking too hard. What about?” Jim asked. “About a girl back home,” Sherlock admitted. “After you left, Mycroft gave me a letter from the girl I told you about.”

“The vicar’s daughter,” Jim remembered. “Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed. “Just read the letter, and you’ll see what I mean.” Sherlock gave Jim the heart-felt letter Irene had written.

Jim’s face remained impassive as he read through it. “It sounds lovely,” he said. “A nice girl waiting desperately for your return,” he said stiffly. “Jim, you said yourself that that’s not what I want,” Sherlock protested.

“Well, what do you want, Sherlock?” asked Jim impatiently. “I don’t know!” said Sherlock. “But I don’t want that. The idea of marriage, dating, the whole female gender, it all just bores me. I have no interest. I feel like there’s something wrong with me. I just don’t feel anything when I look at Irene, or any girl.”

Jim sat back quietly. “You already know what I’m going to say,” he said. Sherlock nodded. “I’m afraid I do,” he confessed. “And I’m afraid I’ve come to the same conclusion.”

Sherlock bit his lip, waiting for Jim’s reaction. Would he be sympathetic? Would he be angry? Sherlock couldn’t think why anyone Jim would be angry, but Jim was Jim and he was not known for his regularity.

“Mycroft’s going to be furious,” said Jim softly. “Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “And mummy, and daddy. And Irene, and her father, and everyone in the village.” He could feel a lump rising in his throat.

“Sherlock, are you sure?” Jim asked. “Believe me, if I could choose to be hetero, I would be. It’s not a lifestyle choice many would make.”

Sherlock looked at Jim. He looked at the blue shadows under his deep brown eyes, and the way his hair fell over his face. He looked at how Jim’s lips were chapped, and how his hands constantly moved in his lap. He looked at the binding wrapped around the fingers on Jim’s left hand, and he wanted nothing more than to just take Jim’s hand.

“I’m sure,” he whispered.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim share another cigarette.

“From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust. May the Lord take mercy on his soul.”

“Amen.” The men in the unit put their hats back on, and Sherlock turned to go back to the hospital. Greg Lestrade had been nothing but kind to him, and it had earned him nothing but a dirty hole in the ground. His body wasn’t even being sent home along with his uniform and a photograph of him. Sherlock did not envy the two soldiers who had to deliver that news to the grieving widow.

He headed back to the hospital and slumped down on his bed. There was a letter on his pillow, from his parents judging by the writing, but he couldn’t bring himself to read it. Mary came over with a clean set of bandages and a bowl of hot water. She didn’t bother asking him how it went, but she held his hand while she cleaned him up and applied fresh bandages. She smiled at him sympathetically, and let him be.

Sherlock wanted to cry over the death of his friend, but he couldn’t bring himself to. It was hard to deal with the thought of never grooming their horses together again, never playing cards in the bunker again, never sharing a flask of whatever Lestrade’s wife had sent him while being stood watch.

Sherlock supposed that he would have to be a foot soldier now. Redmane hadn’t pulled through, and Sherlock didn’t have another horse like some of the men did. The thought filled him with absolute horror. Foot soldiers dropped like flies on the battlefield. Their average life expectancy was somewhere around the two month mark. _At least I’m not a messenger,_ Sherlock reflected. _They have a life expectancy of three weeks._

Mycroft came to visit him later that day. “I hear Gregory’s funeral went well,” he said. “Sherlock said nothing. “It’s a shame. He was a good man, and a good soldier. Did you know he had a wife and children back home?”

Sherlock nodded.  Mycroft kept talking. “Did you read the letter from mummy and daddy? They say they’re going to stop writing if you don’t write to them soon, Sherlock. You’re breaking poor mummy’s heart.”

Sherlock said nothing. Mycroft stood to leave. “Write home, Sherlock. People are worried about you.”

He left. Sherlock sighed, sitting up. He really ought to write home, he decided. He really ought to let mummy know he was alright. “Mary!”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Might I have a pen and some paper?” Mary smiled. “Of course.”

_Dear Mummy and Daddy,_

_Mycroft tells me you worry about me. Really, I’m quite alright. I’m still in the hospital, and I’m healing quite nicely._

_It occurs to me that I haven’t told you much about how I got shot. I was over the top, and Redmane was shot first, then I was shot. If it weren’t for Private James Moriarty, I might have died. He stood with me on the battlefield, and dug out the bullet so that the wound would not get infected. He stayed with me right until I went into hospital, and he visits frequently._

_The thing is, James has had a blow out with his folks at home. They rarely write to him, and they don’t send him anything. It’s a crying shame, and he says he doesn’t care but Christmas is approaching and I should like that he doesn’t feel quite so alone. Is there anything that can be done?_

_Please tell Irene that I’m alright. I would write, but I’m almost out of paper._

_Sherlock_

“Mary?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I’m going to post this, if that’s alright with you?”

“That’s quite alright, Sherlock. The fresh air will do you good. Take a crutch with you, just in case.”

Sherlock grabbed a wooden crutch from the pile in the corner, and headed out. He tried not to look over to the spot where Lestrade’s makeshift funeral had taken place, and headed towards the letter box.

It was December now, almost six months since Sherlock had been deployed and it was miserable. While it had rained in the summer, it came down in lashes for days on end in the winter, then froze overnight to make terrain extra dangerous. Occasionally it snowed, but the snow that settled soon turned into brown slush that seeped into your boots and froze your toes. Mary had been telling Sherlock that more than one man had come in with severe foot infections, and they’d even had to amputate a few. Sherlock could feel the slush seeping in through his boots now, and he was glad that he had a nice warm hospital waiting for him rather than a cold damp bunker.

There was a queue for the mailbox. There often was nowadays. Sherlock supposed people were writing home for Christmas. People often became more sentimental during the winter months, even those who supposedly hated their families throughout the rest of the year.

Sherlock couldn’t see Jim anywhere though. He didn’t suppose he’d be writing home to his parents, even though it was Christmas. He might write home to his sister, but that was it.

It was sad, Sherlock reflected. That people like Jim (he still had trouble thinking of himself as a homosexual) were completely alone at Christmas just because their parents thought it was a sin to prefer the company of men.

The line moved forwards. _What’s sad,_ Sherlock thought to himself _is that you have trouble admitting what you are. You’ve admitted to Jim; why can’t you admit to yourself?_

Sherlock couldn’t answer that.

He found himself at the front of the line, and he pushed his letter through the thin slot. The mailbox was nearly full, he noted. _Sentimentality is a defect found on the losing side_. If that was the case, England was about to suffer a very sorry defeat.

He walked back to the hospital, and leaned against the outside wall, pulling a cigarette put of the packet Jim had brought him. He remembered the first time he and Jim had met. Jim had been leaning up against this very wall, bandage round his leg, blowing smoke rings into the air. He’d taught Sherlock how to do it a few weeks later, and Sherlock decided to practice now.

After a few tries, he finally managed a perfect ring. He saw Jim looking at him from a short distance away. “Want one?” he asked. Jim smiled. “You’re getting better,” he commented, coming to lean against the wall next to Sherlock. “Still not the master though.” He took the cigarette out of Sherlock’s hand, took a drag, and blew two neat rings.

“Are you sure you don’t have your own this time?” asked Sherlock. Jim shrugged. “Sharing is caring,” he said handing back the cigarette. Sherlock took a drag on the cigarette. “That doesn’t answer my question.” Jim smiled. “Finally,” he said, taking the cigarette back from Sherlock. “You’ve learnt.”

They passed the cigarette back and forth for a little while. “How’s your leg?” asked Sherlock. “The one that got shot?”

“Hurts like a bitch in this cold weather. How’s your shoulder? The one that got shot?”

“It’s getting there. Still can’t move the arm though. How are your fingers? The ones that I broke?”

“They’re fine. Still a little stiff, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Can I see?”

Jim held out his hand. The bandages had gone now, but it was clear to see that the fingers weren’t fully healed. Sherlock took the hand and examined it closely. “Adding to your mental database?” Jim teased. “How did you know…?” asked Sherlock.

“You told me once,” Jim said. “I assumed it was just a quirk.” Sherlock smiled. “I am.” He gently bent the fingers, noting how Jim quietly hissed when they went too far.

“Did you mean what you said the other day?” Jim asked quietly, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock nodded. “I did,” he said, not taking his eyes off Jim’s hand. “I struggle confessing to myself though.”

“I did, at first,” Jim told him. “You don’t want to believe it. Your whole life you’ve been told it’s dirty and sinful, and that the deepest circle of hell is reserved just for you if you lie with another man. When I realised, I tried everything. I went round nearly every girl where I lived, gained myself a reputation as a player. Somehow that was more acceptable than when I was outed as a homosexual. My father would ruffle my hair and call me a scamp, and my mother looked at me with love as she tried to tell me to settle down with one girl. When they discovered I was a homosexual, she cried and cried. My father shouted at me, even hit me once or twice, dragged me down to the recruitment office and told them I needed straightening out, and there was nothing like a war to make a boy into a man. Only my sister held my hand and told me she loved me anyway.”

Sherlock realised he was still holding onto Jim’s hand. “I can’t imagine Mycroft doing that,” he said, letting go. Jim shrugged. “I think it’s just more in a sister’s nature to love her brother unconditionally, and Lord knows I love my sister. Brothers are different, I should imagine.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to shrug. “I should think it’s just Mycroft. He’s always tried his hardest to be exactly what mummy and daddy want of him.” Jim snorted. “Let me guess; you’re the wayward, disappointing child.” He laughed. “Boy are they going to be disappointed.”

“Father will,” Sherlock agreed. “He’ll be furious. I’m not sure about mummy.”

Jim took a drag on the cigarette. “Are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “It seems somewhat self-destructive.” Jim laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

The cigarette was burning low, and Jim pulled another packet out of his pocket. Sherlock knew better than to be surprised.

“I’m sorry about your friend Lestrade,” said Jim. “He seemed like a good man.” Sherlock swallowed. “He was so much more than that. He was a brave man. He was a confident man. He was a smart man.”

“Not smart enough, it would seem,” Jim commented. Sherlock shot him a dirty look. “No one here can have any brains about them,” Jim said. “Not even you. Otherwise we’d all run.”

“Desertion is an offense punishable by courts martial,” Sherlock said. “Only if you’re caught,” said Jim. “Just think, across the border into Spain, or maybe even down into Switzerland. Then you could be safe forever.” Sherlock glanced around. “Jim, that kind of talk can get you shot on the spot.”

“I know, your big brother kindly reminded me once.” Jim stood up. “You best be getting inside; it looks like it’s going to snow.” Sherlock nodded. “Nice talking with you. Thanks for letting me examine your hand.”

“No problem.”

Sherlock picked up his crutch and went back inside, where he peeled off his wet socks. The things Jim had been saying worried him. Was he going to up and leave? There was no question that he would get caught. There were guards patrolling the edges of the camp, and even if he got past them, the officers would send the cavalry after him. No man could outrun a good rider. Anyway, where would that leave Sherlock? All alone, with only Mycroft looking out for him, and that might not even last.

Sherlock shook his head. Jim wouldn’t just run off. He wouldn’t.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a surprise for Sherlock.

“Sherlock! Wake up!”

Sherlock bolted upright, sweating. “It’s just me. Come on, put a shirt on and get moving.”

“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock sleepily. “I need to show you something,” Jim replied. “Come on!”

A piece of material hit Sherlock in the face, and Sherlock pulled it over his head. “You’re going to need a jacket too,” Jim told him. “Where are we going?” Sherlock repeated, a little more with it now he was putting clothes on.

“Careful; we don’t want to wake the nurse up. Come with me.”

Sherlock followed Jim towards the door as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Jim, I really would like to know where we’re going.”

“I really would like you to be quiet,” Jim told him. Sherlock’s boots crunched in the fresh snow, and he followed Jim, despite his growing annoyance. “It’s bloody freezing out here, Jim.”

“It is December, genius. It’s not far now.”

Sherlock followed Jim up a slope to the edge of a forest. “Are we here? Is this it?”

“Yes, this is it. Sit down.” Sherlock did as he was told, and Jim settled down next to him. “If I catch my death of hypothermia, I’ll kill you,” Sherlock told Jim. Jim rolled his eyes, and pointed up at the sky. “Look.”

Sherlock sighed as he looked up at the sky, only to gasp at what he saw. What must have been hundreds of thousands of stars sparkled in the inky black sky, thousands of miles ahead. “I’ve never seen them so clearly,” said Jim, clearly happy with Sherlock’s reaction. “We don’t even need a telescope.” Sherlock was speechless.

“Which constellations do you know?” Jim asked. “None,” Sherlock confessed. Jim looked as if Sherlock had just insulted his sainted mother. “None?!”

“I’ve never really seen the point of looking at stars.” Jim couldn’t believe it. “Do you even know what order the planets are in?”

“Does it matter?” Jim looked like he was going to slap him. “Of course it matters!”

“How?” Sherlock countered. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes all the difference in the world! What if Earth was the closest planet to the sun? It’d be considerably hotter! What if we all lived on Mars? It’d been colder than this all the time. Oh Sherlock, you just have to know about the planets.”

Sherlock learnt a lot about the solar system that night. He learnt there were nine planets, called Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto, in that order, but some scientists didn’t consider to be a planet. He learnt there was an asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. He learnt what constellations were, and where to find some of them.

“And over there’s Orion the Hunter,” said Jim. “The three stars in the middle, they’re called Orion’s Belt.”

“Why are they special?” Sherlock asked. “They just are,” Jim told him.

He learnt that Saturn had rings, and Jupiter had a big red spot. He learnt more than he could ever have needed to know about the universe and its contents, all in the space of a couple of hours. He learnt a lot about Jim too. How Jim had gone stargazing with his grandfather up until his grandfather had suffered a heart attack and died. He learnt that Jim loved nothing more than sitting and drawing out star charts. He learnt that Jim had been planning to apply to study astrology at university before he’d been sent away to war. He learnt how Jim’s face lit up after he pointed out constellation after constellation, and how he looked years younger as he told Sherlock about Alpha Centauri, the closest star to Earth apart from the sun.

“It’s bigger than our sun, in terms of mass and size.” Jim told him. Sherlock nodded. “Interesting.”

Jim looked away. “I dragged you here to look at stars, but to ask something of you too.” Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. “Anything,” he promised.

“Run away with me.” Sherlock’s heart stopped. “Right now?” he asked. Jim nodded. “Please, Sherlock. I can’t stand it here anymore. I’m sick of sleeping in the mud and having to go out day in, day out and kill people. I can’t do it anymore. Run away with me. We’ll travel south, down into Switzerland. We can run away, screw Mycroft, screw my parents, screw everyone.”

Sherlock stuttered and stammered. “Jim, we can’t. There are guards, and even if we escaped, we can’t outrun riders.”

“We’ll steal horses,” Jim said. He took Sherlock’s hand. “Please Sherlock.” Sherlock shook his head. “If we stole horses, they’d know we were gone immediately. Jim, don’t ask me to do this. I can’t.” Jim let go of Sherlock’s hand, suddenly cold. “Fine. I’ll go by myself.”

“Jim, no! You can’t go!”

“And why not, Sherlock?” Jim stepped up close to Sherlock. “What have I got here or at home?”

“You have me, you stupid idiot!” Sherlock felt like screaming. “You can’t go, you…” Jim stepped that little bit closer and closed the gap between them, catching Sherlock’s lips before he could spit out another insult.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock, and he considered pushing Jim off before he realised. _I am actually enjoying this,_ he thought to himself in shock. He closed his eyes and leaned in, feeling Jim smiling.

When Jim pulled away, he smiled again. “I’ve been waiting a long time for that, Sherlock Holmes.”

For the second time that night, Sherlock was rendered speechless.

“I… I…” Jim smiled again. “Silly boy,” Jim said. “I won’t run. I’ll stay for you.”

Jim walked Sherlock back to the hospital. Ever worried about prying eyes, they settled for a handshake to say goodbye.

Only when he was back in the warm did Sherlock realise how cold he’d been. He tucked himself back into bed appreciatively, sighing as he regained feeling in his toes. For the first time since he’d arrived in this miserable country, Sherlock Holmes was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love the idea of Jim having his head in the stars! It has to be one of his more... innocent hobbies.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock have some individual reflection time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! School work, am I right? Anyway, enjoy this somewhat slow paced chapter with the knowldge that the next chapter is already being written!

“Hey, Jim!”

Jim froze. “What were you doing out last night?” Anderson asked. “It was freezing!” Before Jim could answer him, he started talking again. “You weren’t out looking at the stars, were you?”

“Y… Yes, I was.” Jim pretended to be embarrassed. “I never had you pegged as a stargazer! The more you know, huh?”

“The more you know…” Jim pulled his coat tighter around him. What had he done to deserve being stood out here in the freezing cold with this idiot? He wouldn’t have minded if it was snowing. Jim liked snow. He didn’t like when it was too cold for even snow to fall.

“Did you hear? A lad in the bunker next to ours has had to have his whole foot cut off!”

“Really?” Jim pretended to be interested. “Why?”

“Poor bastard lost a toe to frost bite, and it went gangrenous. Awful stuff.”

“Awful stuff indeed,” Jim agreed. Anderson shook his head. “Poor sod. Makes me wonder if it’s all worth it.” Jim glanced sideways at the man next to him. “All this death, and injury. What’s it all for? I suppose it’s for the greater good, but they promised to have us home by Christmas, and well, they’re cutting it rather fine!” Anderson sighed. “I really ought not to talk like that. I’m sure High Command know what they’re doing. I’m certain they’ve got a cracker of a plan to have us home by the New Year, if not Christmas.”

Jim sighed. Even Anderson, the most patriotic idiot around, was getting sick and tired of this God-forsaken war. Jim didn’t see why it was such a bad thing to just let the Kaiser take over England. He could learn German quick enough, he was sure. In any case, Jim was Irish. What did he care if London turned German? The Germans would have a right old time trying to conquer Ireland. Stubborn lands, with even more stubborn people.

“I suppose we shall have some spectacular bed time stories for our future children, hey Jim?” Anderson joked. “Spectacular isn’t the word I’d use,” Jim muttered.

“At least the gals will be all over us when we get home,” Anderson continued. “All the nice girls like a soldier. You never told me about your gal back home.”

“I don’t have a gal back home, Anderson,” Jim said wearily. “I’m certain we’ve had this discussion before.”

“I’m certain we haven’t,” Anderson said. “In any case, my gal Sally’s a real gem. You don’t mind if I tell you about her, do you? Makes me miss home a little less.”

“Go ahead,” Jim said, preparing to block out Anderson’s rambling about this Sally chick. There was no harm in letting the man ramble, in truth, Jim actually rather liked it. It meant that he could totally tune out and sort through his own thoughts without worrying about whatever Anderson was rabbiting on about.

Anderson’ mouth started moving, and Jim’s thoughts drifted to the previous night. It wasn’t one of his more smooth moments, but it got the job done. He smiled at how Sherlock genuinely thought he might run off. Silly boy. As if Jim would run off when the most gorgeous man on the planet was right here. There was something about Sherlock, for sure, that Jim found irresistible. Jim liked to think he was better than falling for just a pretty face, although there was no denying Sherlock was a very good looking specimen. No, Jim was fairly certain that Sherlock’s brain was the most attractive thing about him. That amazing brain of his that was just going to waste out here in the trenches, knee deep in what was probably shit. And then there was the simple naïve look about him. Jim knew he was only two years younger than him, less than that, but Jim couldn’t help but see him as so much younger. It was in the eyes, Jim told himself. Those goddamn eyes that Jim would still see at night. When Sherlock had been looking up at the stars, Jim had been looking at Sherlock’s eyes. Wide open in the night, reflecting the stars.

Jim shook himself. _Pull yourself together, soldier. You sound like a poorly written romance novel._ Jim blinked a few times, bringing himself back to the present, where Anderson was still talking about his Sally.

“She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, and that’s not even the end of it. She’s one of the nicest too. She puts up with me at the end of the day, and we all know that requires a saint’s patience!” Anderson laughed, and Jim laughed weakly along with him.

“Say, Jim, are you feeling alright? You’re very quiet.” Bless him, Anderson looked genuinely concerned. Almost made Jim feel guilty about considering stabbing him in his sleep. Almost.

“It’s just the cold,” he said. “I’ve never been one for the cold.” Anderson laughed. “Well, I thought I was, until this blasted war! Honestly, it’s almost as if the Lord himself has decided to kill us all off and have done with it!”

Jim shrugged. He’d never really been one for religion in particular, especially given his lifestyle choices, but he could almost guarantee that if there was a God, he would not be best pleased about his creations killing each other off like this.

“You are right about the cold though. These coats don’t do much for keeping the chill out of one’s bones. Maybe if I ask nicely, my mother might knit me a scarf.”

Jim wished he could say the same. He dreaded to think what might happen if he wrote home asking his mother for a scarf. His father would probably burn the letter before she ever saw it, and even if she did, he doubted she’d even consider wasting precious wool on Jim. His sister might knit him one, if she could get the wool and a pair of needles, and could knit him one in secret without their parents finding out. Jim decided it was best to just not bother. He resigned himself to listening to Anderson’s mindless blathering about his mother’s superb knitting skills while they stood freezing their faces off.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was plenty warm enough in his room in the hospital. Being Mycroft’s brother had its privileges, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty for other soldiers huddled up in their bunks, wrapped up in all the clothing they owned to try and preserve body heat.

Mary knocked on the door. “Sherlock? Are you decent?” Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh. “How many times have you seen me without a stitch on, and now you ask me if I’m decent?”

“It’s etiquette, Mr Holmes, maybe you should read up on it,” Mary said cheekily coming into the room anyway. “We received a package for you, direct from headquarters. Unopened.”

“Unopened?” Sherlock asked. “That’s new.” Mary shrugged. “Obviously Mycroft decided your mail wasn’t worth sorting through.” She handed over a large brown paper package and an envelope with his name on it, and left the room.

Sherlock read the letter first.

_Our dear Sherlock,_

_We don’t know if this letter will find you before Christmas, but even if it doesn’t, Merry Christmas! We hope that you at least get some snow where you are. Well, I do. Your father says snow is the worst thing that can happen to a battlefield, but I remember how much you and Mycroft loved the snow when you were younger. The pair of you used to play outside for hours, building snowmen and forts and pelting each other with snow balls. Do you remember, Sherlock?_

_I’ve wrapped up your Christmas presents. Hopefully they’ll all reach you intact. You’ll notice that there are two of everything. I wrapped some presents for your friend Jim. He saved my baby’s life, so the least I could do for him is ensure that he receives some token of our gratitude. I think Irene Adler has sent something to you, too. She’s started coming to my prayer group, you know. She prays for your safety, like we all do. I pray to the Lord to keep you boys safe, all of you._

_Your father says that he doesn’t think this war will last much longer. He says that you won’t be home before Christmas as they originally thought, but he doesn’t think it will be much longer. Hold on until then, Sherlock._

_Stay safe, and stay warm._

_Love,_

_Mummy and Daddy x_

Sherlock looked at the brown paper package. Mummy had said that Jim’s presents were wrapped up too, so Sherlock figured it would be best to wait for Jim to open them. In any case, they were Christmas presents. Mummy would throw a fit if she knew he’d opened them before 25th December, even if it was 23rd. 

He put the package neatly under his bed just as Dr Watson came in. “Good morning, Sherlock. How are you today?” the doctor asked.

“I’m doing well, thank you. How are you?” Sherlock asked politely. “Oh, the usual,” Dr Watson said. “Over worked, under equipped, you know. I miss my office at home. I at least had a full set of instruments.” He settled on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “Anyway, I’m not here to complain. Shirt off please, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock did what he was told, shivering as the cold air hit his skin. Dr Watson pretended not to notice as he examined the hole in Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’re not showing any signs of infection,” he noted. “Thank the Lord.” He looked up at Sherlock. “Can you lift your arm for me, please?”

Sherlock did, wincing. “Still painful?” Dr Watson asked. Sherlock nodded. Dr Watson scribbled in his notebook. “I’m afraid I can’t give you anything for that other than hard whiskey.” Sherlock pulled a face. He knew it was silly, but he had actively avoided whiskey during his stay in the hospital, as he now associated the taste of it with extreme pain. He knew it was just a matter of programming himself to dissociate the two, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Dr Watson put his pen down. “I’m just going to have a bit of a poke around,” he told Sherlock. “This might sting a little.”

Sherlock braced for the worst. He hissed in pain as Dr Watson prodded and pulled at the torn skin. “Yes, that’s healing up quite nicely. How does everything feel?”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. Dr Watson smiled. “Good. If there’s one thing we don’t like, it’s a whiner. You get plenty of rest now, and I’ll be seeing you again after Christmas. I’m just going to, um, exchange notes with Nurse Morstan. Good day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Exchange notes? Exchange saliva, more like._ As if he was stupid enough to miss what was going on between Mary and the good Doctor. They couldn’t be less subtle if they tried, and anyway, Mary told him most of what happened between them.

Sherlock was left alone with his thoughts as Dr Watson went off in pursuit of Mary. His thoughts wandered back to the previous night, and the way Mary had looked at him the morning after as if she knew exactly what he’d been up to. Of course, Sherlock knew it was just his guilty conscience, although he couldn’t figure out why he felt guilty about kissing Jim. It wasn’t like Jim had a girlfriend back home, and neither did he, really. Irene didn’t count. He’d never asked to be more than friends. It was her that thought there was something more to their relationship. Sherlock cringed just thinking about it. He knew the day would come where he would have to go home and face Irene, and tell her that he didn’t want to get married. Then of course, there would be her father to answer to…

Sherlock shook his head. No good thinking about that right now. Right now he had Jim, and that was all that mattered. Who knew if he would even get home to Irene anyway? Sherlock knew he had to treasure the present like he had never done before, and his present was Jim.

He wondered where Jim was now. Most likely stood in the freezing cold, doing God knows what. What with Redmane gone, Sherlock knew he’d be doing the exact same thing soon. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness in his heart over the loss of his beloved horse. He’d known him since he was a foal, and now he was gone. Sherlock had heard rumours that the horses that died in battle were collected off the battlefield and what could be salvaged was made into dinner. Sherlock hoped that wasn’t true, for Redmane’s sake. He deserved so much better than that.

His mind wandered to the brown package under the bed, and his heart warmed again. He had a horrible suspicion that Jim would not be receiving any presents from his own parents, so Sherlock was so grateful to his mother for having the heart that she did, almost as much as he was irritated at himself for not thinking of Jim and writing to ask his mother to send something for him. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Jim’s face when he opened up his presents. He had no idea what his mother would have sent, but Sherlock could hazard a guess at a knitted scarf, maybe even a jumper if his mother had found the wool for it, there would probably be a bar of chocolate in there for each of them too.

Sherlock caught himself before his mind could get too wrapped up in presents. He was not a child, and he would not behave like one. All the same, he had make sure Jim spent Christmas with him. Jim did visit most days, and Sherlock was grateful; it was more than Mycroft managed. Deep down, he knew that it would be very busy in Headquarters, but he couldn’t help but feel a little bitter towards his brother.

Mary pushed open the door, looking as prim and pristine as ever, giving no clue that she’d just been lip-locking with a certain doctor. “Dr Watson tells me you’re healing up nicely,” she said.

“Like you didn’t already know that,” Sherlock said with a smile. Mary was a lot smarter than she let on, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that she put on a stupid act for a reason.

Mary smiled at him. “Of course I didn’t. I don’t have any fancy qualifications like Dr Watson.” Sherlock snorted, but left it there. “And how is the good Doctor?” he asked. Mary rolled her eyes. “As tactile as ever,” she sighed. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Sherlock sat back on his pillows, listening to Mary chatting mindlessly as she tidied the room and re-dressed his shoulder, wondering when Jim would come and visit again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas day rolls around, and the Holmes brothers still can't get along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long!! You know that feeling when you know exactly where you want a story to go, but you can't quite get it there... add that to exam stress, and you've got yourself a right old mess. Anyway, enjoy :)

“Merry Christmas!”

Sherlock groaned and tried to roll over. “No, don’t do that!” Mary caught him before he could roll onto his injured shoulder. “What time is it?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s seven o’clock in the morning on December 25th, 1915!” Mary seemed far too excited. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock!”

Sherlock did his best to smile at her. “Merry Christmas, Mary.” Mary squeaked in excitement. “Oh, I just love Christmas! Does it count as a White Christmas if there’s snow left on the ground from yesterday?”

“I think it has to fall today,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Spoilsport,” Mary said. “There’s a ceasefire today, and I think there was even talk of a football game.”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s certainly odd,” he said.

There was a knock on the door. “Brother Mine,” came Mycroft’s voice. “Are you decent?”

“No,” Sherlock called out. Mycroft let himself in anyway. “Mother used to put us in the bath together,” he said. “There’s nothing I haven’t already seen.” He smiled at Sherlock. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” Mary stood awkwardly. “Excuse me, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I have things to be doing.” She bustled out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone with his older brother. “How’s the shoulder?” Mycroft asked. “Doctor Watson says it’s doing well. I’m due a review after Christmas.” Mycroft nodded. “I imagine you’ll be back in action soon enough.”

“Oh, goodie,” Sherlock said sarcastically. Mycroft chose to ignore him. “So, what did mummy and daddy send you?” he asked. “I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “I haven’t opened the package yet.”

“Saving it for Christmas day?” Mycroft chuckled. “Well, open it!”

“I can’t,” Sherlock said. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Come on, Sherlock, I’m sure your shoulder isn’t that bad!”

“It’s not that,” Sherlock protested. “I’m waiting for a friend.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You mean Private Moriarty, don’t you?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft sighed heavily. “Sherlock, I don’t know what else I can do. I’ve told you time and time again that Private Moriarty is bad news, but what do you do? You continue to ignore me!”

“That’s because you don’t understand!” Sherlock argued. “He’s not bad news. He’s got an attitude problem, but it’s not harming anyone!”

“Not harming anyone? Sherlock, we are at war! Attitude is half the battle! Morale is low enough without men like Moriarty dragging it through the mud.” Sherlock wanted to strangle his brother. Why couldn’t he just get down off his high horse and see sense?

“What do you know about the morale of the troops? You spend all day up in HQ, pretending to be a big man next to all the distinguished army generals!”

Mycroft looked angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him, and he wondered if he’d gone a step too far, shortly before deciding that no, he hadn’t. “You know what, Sherlock? You’re right. I am the least experienced general in there, and I don’t come down here often. Why would I? Why would I chose mud over thick rugs? I offered you the chance to join me, but you refused. Now look at you.” Mycroft gave Sherlock a look of pity. “And to think, I only came to wish my baby brother a merry Christmas.”

“And you’ve done a wonderful job.” Sherlock smiled sarcastically. Mycroft huffed. “I’m leaving,” he announced. “I’m going back to my nice, warm, carpeted office.”

“Really mature,” Sherlock commented under his breath as Mycroft turned on his heel and strutted out of the room. “Good day, Sherlock.”

As soon as Mycroft was gone, Mary came back. “Don’t worry,” she told Sherlock. “There’s one in every family. My cousin Stanley can be a right…” she trailed off. “There are no words to describe Cousin Stanley,” she told him. “Whereas there are plenty to describe Mycroft, but I couldn’t possibly say them in the presence of a lady,” Sherlock said dryly. Mary laughed. “Let’s get you dressed. Can’t have you lounging about in your pyjamas all day!”

Sherlock was fine getting most of his clothes on, but he needed a little help in pulling his sweatshirt on over his head. Mary tugged gently until it was in place, then settled him onto his bed.

There was a timid knock on the door, and Mary went to answer it. “Private Moriarty!” she exclaimed. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Nurse Moran,” Jim said. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” Sherlock grinned. “Merry Christmas, Jim.”

Jim came and sat in his usual spot in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed. “I don’t really see what’s merry about it, but I’m told we have to be grateful for what little we have.”

“Anderson?” Sherlock guessed. Jim nodded. “Got it in one.” Sherlock smiled. “My mother says things like that too,” he said. “Speaking of my mother, she was, well, grateful, that you saved my life, so she sent you a few things for Christmas.”

Sherlock watched to see how Jim reacted. He would have expected any number of things; laughter, curiosity, doubt, but he never expected to see tears forming in the corner of Jim’s eyes. “Jim?” he asked. “Is everything alright?”

Jim swallowed and blinked furiously. “I’m fine, everything’s fine,” he choked out. “I’m just… It’s…” he sighed. “She didn’t have to do that.” Sherlock smiled. “The poor dear couldn’t bring herself to not say thank you.” He reached under his bed and pulled out the brown paper package. “It arrived a few days ago. I didn’t open it.”

Jim took a moment to pull himself together while Sherlock fumbled under the bed. _Get a grip,_ he told himself. _You are a grown man. It’s just a small token of gratitude._

Sherlock ripped at the paper and pulled out the individually wrapped packages inside. “Oh look, she even wrote our names on them.” He distributed the individually wrapped packages while Jim pulled himself together. “There,” Sherlock said, crumpling up the wrappings and throwing them onto the floor. He looked at Jim with an expression that wouldn’t look out of place on a five year old, grinning. “Let’s get started!”

Jim rolled his eyes, pretending to be above all the festive excitement, but really his heart was melting watching Sherlock’s face light up like the fifth of November.

He pulled at the corner of one of the packages that Sherlock had handed him, trying to keep the paper intact. It was a game that he and his sister used to play when they were children, seeing if they could get the paper to stay in one piece. Their parents used to save the paper they didn’t rip, Jim remembered, and use it for the next round of presents. He shook those thoughts out of his mind. He didn’t need to think about his parents right now.

He pulled carefully at the paper and pulled out a pair of navy blue hand knitted gloves. He pulled them on over his hands, thanking whatever higher powers there were for Mrs Holmes. Now his fingers might not fall off during those cold nights stood sentry outside the bunker.

He glanced over at Sherlock, who was winding a bright blue scarf round his neck. “Mummy never did like the idea of being cold,” Sherlock said. “Besides, she loves to knit.” Jim smiled. “They’re lovely,” he said, holding up his hands so that Sherlock could see his new gloves. Sherlock grinned. “Come on! What’s next?”

Jim picked up another package. It was hard and oblong and Jim was fairly certain he knew what was inside it. His suspicions were confirmed when he peeled back a corner of the paper and discovered the purple label of a bar of Cadbury’s Glass and a Half. “Chocolate,” he said, smiling. “I can’t remember the last time I had chocolate.”

Sherlock held an identical bar in his hands. “I haven’t had any since I left for France,” he said. “I suppose it’s been even longer for you.” Jim nodded. “I can’t say it’s at the top of the list of things I’ve missed, but it’s definitely nice to have some.”

He picked up another package. It was soft and squishy and large, and when Jim carefully tore open the paper he found himself holding a soft jumper, knitted with the same navy blue wool that had been used for his new gloves. He grinned. He was most definitely not going cold this winter.

Sherlock held up a deep purple version of Jim’s jumper. “That purple looks like it’ll suit you well,” Jim noted. “Put it on!”

Sherlock did as he was told with a little help from Jim easing it over his injured shoulder. Jim nodded. “Gorgeous,” Jim sighed. Sherlock flushed. “Stop it,” he said, embarrassed. “There’s still one more package left for each of us.”

Jim picked up the last package in front of him, and gently opened it up. He pulled out a bright red scarf. “I… I used to have one like this,” he said, staring at the woollen garment in his hand. “Back when I was a kid.”

A picture of a snowman came up in his mind’s eye, wrapped up warm in a red woolly scarf and hat, with matching red mittens keeping his stick fingers warm, and an orange carrot nose stuck between a crooked smile and two mis-matched eyes.

Jim couldn’t stop the tear that fell down his cheek. Sherlock glanced at him, worried. “Jim? What’s wrong?”

Jim shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He remembered how his little fingers had gone numb and his throat had gone cold and his mother had shouted at him, saying a snowman couldn’t catch his death of cold like Jim was going to. Then she’d hugged him and made him and his sister a cup of warm cocoa, a rare treat reserved for days when it was so cold they could see their breath in front of their faces, even inside the house.

Sherlock looked even more concerned as the tears carried on running down Jim’s face. “Is everything alright?” he asked.

Jim nodded. Mary had cried when that snowman had melted, come spring when the sun melted all the snow away. They’d woken up one day to see Jim’s hat, scarf and gloves sat in a puddle in the middle of the garden, along with a carrot and the rocks they’d used to create the mouth and eyes. Jim had wiped her eyes and told her they’d build a new snowman when it snowed again, but she’d still been sad.

He snapped himself back to the present, where Sherlock was staring at him. He smiled at him. “It’s perfect,” he whispered. “Thank you.” He leaned forwards and wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock. “Thank you so much.”

Sherlock patted Jim on the back, unsure of how to deal with a very emotional Jim. “It’s okay,” he tried. Jim sniffed and pulled away. “Disgusting,” he said, wrinkling his nose and pulling his handkerchief out of his sleeve. He used it to dab at his face, trying to clean up the mess he’d made of it. Sherlock smiled awkwardly. It wasn’t that he minded Jim crying, honestly he didn’t, but he’d never been good at dealing with people when they were upset.

Jim cleared his throat. “That’s better,” he said. “I don’t know what it is about this time of year, I must just be going positively loopy…”

“Jim, stop talking,” Sherlock said. “It’s alright. You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I’m just going to be here to support you through whatever.”

Jim almost cried again. It had been so long since he’d been spoken to like that. It was always “Man up, son!” or “Grow some balls, soldier!” Even the resident therapist was less than supportive. Most folk who went for an appointment, hoping to be deemed so irreparably broken that they were sent home were given a shot of liquor and told to stop being such a girl. To hear Sherlock saying things like that…

“Oh, shush you,” he said, playing it off casually. “I’m just a little sentimental, is all. Anyway, you’ll never guess what.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side. He didn’t suppose he’d ever be able to keep up with Jim’s random mood swings. “Apparently, there’s been rumours of a football game being played today.”

Sherlock was disappointed. “Is that all?”

“Not just any football, Sherlock! Guess what the teams are?”

“Manchester United and Tottenham Hotspurs?” Sherlock guessed sarcastically. Jim gave him a withering look. “Don’t be silly, Sherlock. It’s England versus Germany.”

Sherlock blinked. “Wait, the actual Germans from Germany?”

It was Jim’s turn to be sarcastic. “No, we invited some Germans from over in Timbuctoo. Of course they’re from Germany you dozy muppet!”

“How odd,” Sherlock mused, ignoring Jim’s sarcasm. “Are you going to play?”

“Me?” Jim scoffed. “I avoid sports under normal circumstances. Now you’re asking if I would like to go outside in the freezing cold and kick a ball around?”

“Alright, I understand,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re so dramatic sometimes.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jim retorted. “That’s why you love me anyway.” Sherlock sighed. “I do,” he whispered. “I really do love you.”

Jim glanced around them. _What the hell._ He leaned in and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips. “I love you too. Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, Jim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also been working on a little something on the side, something of my own (i.e. not fanfic). Would anyone be interested in reading a part of it, just for a little work in progress feedback? It would be much appreciated :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The joy of Christmas is over, but Mycroft has one last gift to give.

The Christmas bliss was over all too soon, and Sherlock quickly found himself evicted from his safe hospital bed and stood outside in the mud, wondering what on earth he was going to do with himself. He had been drafted into this war as a cavalry soldier, and he knew as a foot soldier, he had approximately six weeks left, fewer if the rumours of another “big push” could be believed.   
He trudged back to his old barracks where his things were. May as well start collecting them before they’re collected for me, Sherlock thought. The barracks seemed empty without Lestrade’s laughter echoing round the dugout. Sherlock immediately felt selfish for not having thought of him much during his stay in the hospital. Lestrade had been a good man, and Sherlock could only hope the men they sent to inform his wife had done his memory justice.   
“Thought I might find you here.” Sherlock cringed as he heard a voice that meant very bad news. “What do you want, Mycroft?”  
“Why, I heard my little brother had been discharged from the hospital and came to see how you were faring.” Footsteps approached behind him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Likely story. You probably came to laugh at my misfortune,” Sherlock said bitterly.   
Mycroft seemed genuinely confused. “I’ve not heard of any misfortune, brother mine,” he said, head tilting to one side. “Have you a cold, perhaps?”  
“Don’t joke about with me, Mycroft,” Sherlock whipped round, furious. “Redmane was shot during my last battle. I’ve no other option but to be a foot soldier now.”  
“Yes, terrible pity about Redmane,” Mycroft said, sounding as if he couldn’t care less about the death of Sherlock’s beloved horse. “I did however see this little snag coming.”   
Sherlock looked at him, eyes narrowed in caution. “Of course,” he said carefully. “What else would happen?”  
“Well, you might have someone who cares for you enough to keep you out of the foot divisions,” Mycroft said, examining his nails. “There might be a surprise waiting for you in the stables.”  
Sherlock could hardly believe his luck. “Mother and Father sent another horse?” he asked excitedly. “Mother and Father had nothing to do with it,” Mycroft said. “However a certain older brother might have.” He looked Sherlock in the eyes with such smugness that in spite of what he’d done, Sherlock could still easily punch him right between the eyes. He refrained, knowing that doing so could result in firing squad. “Take me to the stables,” he said calmly. “I want to see him.”  
“Her, actually,” Mycroft corrected. “Rosamunde, her name is.”  
Sherlock couldn’t care less about the gender of the bloody thing. He wasn’t a foot soldier. He had more than six weeks. For the first time since arriving in France, things were starting to look up for him.   
Mycroft stood to the side, amused. “Let’s go, Sherlock. I feel the two of you may wish to get acquainted.”  
Sherlock practically ran across the muddy field to the stables. When he got there, he knew instantly which horse was his Rosamunde. She stood in the corner, sleek and black all over apart from the white socks that looked more dirty brownish than white. She definitely needed a grooming, but Sherlock was more than happy to do that. He wasted no more time on Mycroft, going straight to the stall and picking up a brush.  
“I see I’m no longer of interest,” Mycroft remarked dryly. “All I require is a thank you, and then I shall be on my way.”  
“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, not even minding that he was being nice to his brother. All he wanted was to be left alone with this beauty of a horse. Mycroft took the hint and turned sharply on his heel, leaving without a word.  
Never mind that she was beautiful, she was his ticket to life. Maybe even to surviving the whole damned war. Sherlock shook his head. It was foolish to think like that. This war had been dragging on for years, and nothing seemed to have changed, no matter how much the officials in high command told them it had.  
Of course, Sherlock knew better than to say that out loud.   
He brushed until Rosamunde shone from mane to hoof. “You’re no Redmane,” he told her, “But you certainly do brush up nicely.”  
“Thank you,” a soft Irish voice replied. “Although I do consider myself to be more attractive than most horses.”  
Sherlock whipped round to see Jim stood, covered in mud. “What happened to you?” Sherlock asked. Jim just shook his head. “So you’re out of the hospital.”  
“Nice observation,” Sherlock grinned. “You know; you could be a detective with those skills.”  
“Alright, Mr Smarty-pants.” Jim rolled his eyes. “You know, I remember a Sherlock who was afraid of his own shadow. What happened to that sweet soul?”  
“He got shot,” Sherlock said quietly. “Looks like your brother’s trying to stop that from happening again,” Jim nodded at Rosamunde. “And to think I cleared a shelf for you.”  
There was no humour behind the joke, and Sherlock even felt guilty. “Look, Jim…”  
“Don’t worry about it, Sherlock,” Jim interrupts. “Enjoy your new horse.”   
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, and his fingers drummed at his pocket. Jim raised an eyebrow. “Cigarette?”  
They leaned against the stable wall as they blew smoke at the twilight sky. Sherlock had no idea what to say. “Weather’s picking up,” he commented.   
Jim just laughed. “That the best you can do? Talking about the weather? Oh, Sherlock, I thought you were better than that.”  
Sherlock blushed. “You were hardly doing better,” he retorted. “Never heard of a friendly silence?” Jim asked. “You don’t have to talk all the time.”  
“I know, I just thought it might be nice to engage in conversation.”  
“So you say the weather’s improving, which by the way, it’s not.” They took another drag. “You’re wearing the scarf Mother knitted for you.” Jim shrugged. “It’s a nice scarf. Your mother’s a kind lady.” Sherlock nodded. “I think I was her favourite,” he said. “She was always very proud of me for being accepted into Cambridge. She used to tell all her friends about it all the time.”  
“You were accepted into Cambridge?” Jim asked. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Seem to have a good head on your shoulders, plus a very influential family behind you.”  
Sherlock felt uncomfortable to hear Jim talking about him like that. He supposed it was all true, but he didn’t like the way Jim’s lip curled as he said it. “You know, I think you would have made Cambridge too,” he said. “You’re so bright that they would have offered you a full scholarship, if you’d have wanted it.” Jim shook his head. “School never was the place for me. Too many scraps in the schoolyard.”  
“Jim Moriarty, a schoolyard scrapper?” Sherlock feigned surprise. “Give over,” Jim nudged him. “Not all of us could be home schooled.”  
“I was not home schooled, thank you very much!” Sherlock told him indignantly. Jim just rolled his eyes, not really feeling up to antagonising the boy.   
They smoked in silence for a little while. “Come for a drink with me?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “In the village, this evening.”   
“A drink?” Jim cocked his head. “Yes, a drink. You know, one usually has a pint of beer in a pub style setting…” Sherlock teased. Jim slapped him lightly upside the head. “I understood, you dolt, I was just confused as to why you were asking.”  
Sherlock shrugged, suddenly a little embarrassed. “I just thought that all we ever really do is lean against this wall and smoke. It might be nice to have a change of scenery, if not just for the warmth.” Jim smirked. “Sure. Let’s go for a drink.”  
Sherlock beamed. “Great! I’ll meet you here,” he said, flicking his cigarette away. “For now, I’ve got a horse to break in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. It's only been two years since I last updated! Crazy, huh! How the time flies. But aren't you glad poor Sherly's not doomed to be a foot soldier?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock go for that drink.

The pub was rammed with British soldiers, all in varying stages of soberness. It seemed most men had taken to relying on alcohol as a crutch rather than facing reality, and Jim couldn’t say he could blame them. He’d done more than his fair share of drinking his troubles as a teen, following in his father’s footsteps. They would often drink together, back when they got on, down at the local pub, and they’d come back in the early hours of the morning stinking of rum and laughing like they had no care in the world.  
Jim shook the memory from his head. No need to be getting sad-drunk today. There were plenty of ways to disgrace oneself over here, and drinking was not Jim’s humiliation of choice.  
Sherlock looked as if he’d never seen the inside of a pub before. “Your Pa never take you out drinking?” Jim asked. “He did, but I’m from a rather small town. There’s more people in this pub than there are in my entire village.”  
“Sounds awful,” Jim said. They found a small table away from the main hubbub by the window. Jim decided to save the poor boy the awkwardness of going to order the drinks and do it himself, ordering a beer for Sherlock and a whiskey neat for himself. He weaved his way back through the crowds of chanting soldiers, taking care not to spill the drinks on himself or on anyone else, not particularly wanting to start a fight. Sherlock was already smoking at the table. Jim wondered briefly what sort of monster he’d started to create. A few months ago, he’d offered a cigarette to a shy, frightened boy too nervous to even look him in the eye. Now, he was bringing a drink over to a mysterious, dark young man, unafraid to say exactly what he thought and even had a little stubble around his jaw. Jim could feel a perverse twist of pride at the thought of it.  
“Here,” he said, handing over the beer. Sherlock glanced across. “You don’t like beer?” he asked. Jim shrugged. “I’m Irish,” he said. “I was raised on beer. Nowadays, I need something a little stronger.” He swirled the whiskey around in his glass, watching it splash against the side of the glass. Sherlock took a sip of beer, the frothy head leaving a white moustache across his top lip. Jim smiled slightly. “You look like one of the men down in HQ,” he said quietly. Whilst this was a pub filled with mainly foot soldiers, you never knew who was a spy, or who would snitch for an extra teabag.   
Sherlock grinned. “I can be the spitting image of my brother,” he grinned. Jim fake shuddered. “God forbid. Can you imagine waking up every morning, knowing you look like that?”  
Sherlock laughed. “When we were children, I always used to tease Mycroft, tell him that I inherited all the handsome because none of it went to him, so it had to go somewhere. Then of course, he’d make fun of my lack of genetics knowledge and the fights would go on from there.”  
“You boys and your roughhousing,” Jim commented dryly. “Your mother must have had her hands full.”  
“We’re both rather mummy’s boys,” Sherlock admitted shamefully. “I imagine that if she marched across to France and scolded Mycroft for not ending the war, he’d have the entire fiasco finished in a matter of hours.” Jim laughed. “If my mother made an appearance, I have no doubt she’d be on the other side of the trenches pointing a machine gun right at me.”  
Sherlock didn’t quite know how to react to that. He knew Jim’s relationship with his parents was somewhat strained, but he didn’t know whether he should laugh when Jim made jokes like that, or whether he was joking at all…  
“It’s alright, you can laugh,” Jim told him. “Lord knows I would. She’s a tiny lady, my mother. A machine gun might just finish the old battle axe off.”  
They both took slow sips of their drinks. “I must say, France is a positively miserable country,” Sherlock commented, watching the rain through the window. “Why couldn’t we fight wars in hot places?”  
“That’d be worse,” Jim argued. “Imagine being constantly sticky, your hair sticking to your neck, getting sunburnt…” he trailed off. “Not for me.”  
“We’re always sticky anyway,” Sherlock countered. “The mud gets everywhere. Your hairs always stuck to your back because of the rain, and in this climate, we have trench foot to deal with. I think losing a foot is much worse than a bit of sunburn.”  
“Not for me it isn’t.” They had another sip of their drinks. The men in the pub were getting steadily drunker, singing one slurred tune after the other.   
“Now, if the Germans had any sense, they’d be keeping their men sober,” Jim said. “Then all you’d have to do is wait for a night like this, have a wriggle across No Man’s Land, sneak up on the pubs and bang! We’d all be dead by dawn.”  
“But alcohol is liquid courage,” Sherlock told him. “Is that why you asked me for a drink?” Jim teased. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Sherlock muttered. “As if I would ever need courage to talk to you.”  
“Oh?” Jim raised an eyebrow. “I always considered myself to be terrifyingly unapproachable.”  
“I think that’s what you were made to believe,” Sherlock said gently. Jim did not like where this conversation was going at all. “I suppose I’m doing everything all wrong, unapproachable people don’t go for drinks. I shall have to try harder next time.”  
“You’re not a monster, Jim.”  
“I think that beer’s starting to get to you.”  
“And I think the people are getting to you.” Jim slammed his fist down on the table, making Sherlock jump and attracting the attention of a few soldiers close by. He ignored the stares as he leant across the table to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “And I think you need to shut the hell up before I cut that sharp little tongue out.”  
He leant back in his seat, picking up his drink. Sherlock looked like a kicked puppy, naïve little face wondering where he’d gone wrong. Jim swallowed the dregs and stood up without another word. He left Sherlock sat on his own in the pub.  
The door slammed behind him, and Jim was left alone in the freezing cold night. The sounds coming from inside were muted through the thick wood, but Jim wanted absolute quiet. Not that he would get it anywhere in this wretched country, the constant artillery shells made sure of that, and even when the shells were silent, there was a little voice at his side, an annoying little voice with its cut-glass accent and mop of brown curls and incessant questions.  
All the same, maybe Jim shouldn’t have left him alone in that pub. It was getting towards the rowdy stage of the evening, and Sherlock was but a lad. No. If he went back now, that would be giving in. And James Moriarty never went down without a fight.   
Who did he think he was anyway? Trying to talk to him like that, like he was a child or a girl or some broken doll that he’d found and was trying to “fix”.   
That’s called caring, Jim, his sister’s voice told him. He cares about you. He wants to help.  
“But I don’t need help,” Jim muttered to himself. “Well, that’s debatable. You are stood outside in January without a scarf, talking to yourself.”  
Sherlock stood behind Jim, holding out the scarf he had left in the pub. “Here.” Jim reached a hand out behind him, and Sherlock gently placed the scarf in it.   
“I wasn’t trying to be patronising, Jim,” he said. “Or condescending. I just wanted to let you know how I see you. You make all these jokes and comments about what an awful person you are, and they’re never funny because they’re never true.”  
“I’m not a child, Sherlock. You don’t have to do this.”  
“I don’t see you as a child,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “I rather see you as a scientific oddity.” Jim turned to face him, a mix of confusion and insult scrawled across his face. “What I mean to say is that with all the factors drawn into consideration, I expect you to behave one way and you do something completely different, you’re a classic villain archetype but never in your life could you be bad, you’re everything my mother taught me to avoid but I still feel somehow drawn to you…” he trailed off, trying to find the words he needed. “What I really mean, Jim Moriarty, is that you intrigue me.”  
Jim’s heart melted. “You intrigue me also, Sherlock Holmes.” He was so close to wrapping his arms around the dear, silly boy before he remembered where they were. He settled instead for a warm smile and offering up his packet of cigarettes.  
They sat there, just the two of them sat on the frozen grass outside the pub, sharing a cigarette and staring at the stars until daybreak. All through the night Jim talked. This wasn’t like the last time; he felt no need to impress Sherlock with his vast knowledge about planets and facts. This time, he told Sherlock the stories that his grandfather had told him; the stories of Calisto the huntress who transformed into a bear, and of Zeus’s noble bolt-bearer Pegasus.   
Sherlock hadn’t been interested in stories since he was playing at being a pirate at five years old, but he listened intently to what Jim was telling him. The way he told them, the stories sounded like Shakespearean tragedies, one twist after the other that left Sherlock practically breathless.  
“Hey, you pair! What on Earth are you doing?” a man walked towards them, dressed in officer gear. They scrambled to their feet, and Sherlock’s mind raced for an excuse. “We, erm… we got too drunk last night, landlord threw us out,” he lied. “Too drunk to find our way back to the trenches, didn’t want to cause a fuss and all that. Decided to stay here to sober up, but we fell asleep. We’ll be on our way now.”  
“See that you are.” The man strode off past them, and Jim looked up at the clock tower. “Did I really talk at you all night about silly star stories?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.   
“You did, but I loved it,” Sherlock reassured him. “I suppose we really ought to be heading back to barracks before Officer Nosy comes back again.” They both walked back to the trenches, pretending their hearts weren't pounding in their chests as they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officer Nosy, huh? That was a close-ish call!

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, first chapter, what do you think? It's not checked or beta'd or whatever, but hopefully there's nothing too tragically wrong with it...


End file.
